


and down the world crashes

by pieandsouffle



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin is left on Tatooine AU, Gen, also violence is a thing in this, as you might have guessed ITS STAR WARS what am I saying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pieandsouffle/pseuds/pieandsouffle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan Kenobi and his Padawan Ahsoka Tano are assigned an important mission that could very well turn the tide of the war. </p><p>Darth Tyranus is searching for a mysterious vergence in the Force, detected by himself and his master.</p><p>And, spreading from Tatooine, a parasitic organisation slowly infects slaver worlds, led by the mysterious and elusive 'Starkiller'.</p><p>ON (POSSIBLY PERMANENT) HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU, and these chapters, have been knocking about my laptop since October last year. I finally lost it, and decided the only way I'd finish it would be if I had a little pressure. So, here it is.

The man swept into the bridge, his cloak flying out behind him, swamping the view of an anxious Neimodian Viceroy before the door slammed shut with an ominous _clang_. The Nemoidian sighed loudly, the threat of the man gone, and hurried to his quarters. For when this particular man swept around, cloak billowing dramatically, it was not a good idea to get in his way.

The man flipped his hood down, revealing a tired, old face, snowy hair thinning on the top of his head, his beard considerably shorter than it had been in years past. From a distance, and even from close proximity, he looked like a kindly old man, thin and intelligent from his long years. A glance in his eyes would prove this wrong. His eyes were old, there was no doubt about that, but they were not warm. They were cold and dead, and full of anger and hatred. A thin yellow glow rimmed his irises, and it was clear that anyone who engaged him in conversation for long enough would eventually back away in abject fear.

His name was Count Dooku, and he was a Sith. Not a Sith lord yet, although he longed for the day when his master saw fit to make him one. He was merely an apprentice, but his powers over the Force remained strong from his many years of training as a Jedi.

He could not wait.

A small _beep_ from the console of the bridge spurred Count Dooku to stride over, droids moving out of the way quickly, lest they be destroyed in his path. He reached out a hand (an old hand, veined and gnarled but strong all the same) and pressed on the small blue light flashing at regular intervals.

The lights dimmed, and a hazy blue image sprung up at his touch, the figure of another caped man. Only his mouth was visible below the hood, twisted into a mocking smile.

     “Have you received a request from the Hutts?” Lord Sidious asked in his harsh, patronising voice. His form warped through the flickering holoprojection.

     “I have, my master,” Dooku said, lowering his head in a bow. “They will permit the army who captures and delivers a slave thief to Jabba the Hutt build bases on the planets under their control.”

     “A slave thief? A person of no importance,” Sidious said. “Find them and bring them to Jabba the Hutt. Quickly. The Republic has received the same request. I have no doubt a long winded, dull conversation will ensue, and this head-start may be what you need.”

     “Yes, my lord,” Dooku replied, ignoring the subtle slight. A long time ago, perhaps when he had been first approached by Sidious, he would have bristled at the comment. “I will have him captured, my lord.”

Beneath the cowl, the mouth curled once again into a smile. Dooku decided to try a question.

     “My lord, have you discovered the anomaly in the Force?” he asked carefully. He felt gratified when Lord Sidious’s mouth did not immediately turn into a scowl.

     “The vergence in the Force is growing more powerful, but is no doubt untrained. Deal with this criminal, and then devote your time to locating the vergence.” The brief transmission ended as the words left his mouth, and the room was darkened once more. The only light were from a few droids prodding at the controls of the ship.

Count Dooku gazed out at the stars, unsurprised by his master’s lack of a dismissal or farewell. He waved a hand, and the bridge lit up as the lights of the controls brightened. He looked down quickly at a small screen, stating in some direct words that the planet below was, indeed, the one that he was sure the slave-freer was currently lodging on. As turned his gaze back to the planet below, Dooku’s lip curled up into a grimace.

Jakku. One of the more unpleasant, desolate planets in the Outer Rim, and possibly the entire galaxy. Dooku felt mildly gratified that it was not Tatooine, at least. From what he heard from his old apprentice, Qui-Gon Jinn, in passing words just before the latter’s death, the planet was stuffed full of bloated Hutts, big-time criminals, and small-time smugglers. When the Death Star operation was complete and the battle station had been constructed (although Dooku knew this would take many years), the count was keen to test its firepower on the isolated ball of sandy waste. The destruction of such a planet would not only rid the galaxy of bothersome Hutts, but would also eliminate slavers using the planet as a haven.

Although he _was_ a Sith lord, Dooku was not completely uncivilized. Years of training at the Jedi Temple had managed to press in a few morals that couldn’t be shaken out and obliterated entirely, such as a dislike of enslavement. But to become a _master_ of the Sith, he would need to forget about the petty lives of slaves.

And his master, Lord Sidious, had demanded he track down some fugitive so a Separatist base could be constructed. He would never risk the wrath of his master for personal enjoyment, especially when derived from the destruction of a planet.

Dooku glared down at Jakku with barely concealed dislike. The similarity to Tatooine was overwhelming, and after this little excursion down to the surface of Jakku, he would have to visit Tatooine to bargain with a disagreeable Hutt. Who, he might add, was still resentful from the little incident with that tiny Hutt brat Rotta, or whatever it was the hideous little creature's name was.

     “Prepare a ship to the surface,” he barked to a droid, which almost dropped its gun in surprise from being spoken to. Dooku held in a sigh; they were just so incompetent. It was quite a shock that he and the Separatists were actually winning the war against the Republic. “I want that slave thief. Now.”

     “Roger roger,” the droid saluted, blaster now firmly clasped in hand, and sprinted stiffly down to the hangar.

 

 

***

 

Sidious’s assumption that the Jedi would receive the same request was correct. A collection of three Jedi and the chancellor himself were currently hidden away in the chancellor’s office, no other senators or politicians around.

Jedi Master Mace Windu and the Supreme Chancellor were having a very serious conversation, while a far younger knight and his apprentice stood aside patiently.

     “We know that he or she appeared three years ago with a team of three or four other humanoids, around the times when the first few slaves were freed,” Mace Windu said. “We suspect that the person Jabba is looking for is human or humanoid, and probably was once enslaved.

     “At first they worked alone or with few confidantes. Then, after the release of thirty slaves from Jabba the Hutt’s palace, the operation appeared to expand, with similar cells being activated on nearby planets. Every time a group of slaves was freed, there was another expansion and the- _web_ of this operation grew. It appears that after the slaves are released, many of them are recruited into the organisation or smuggled into Republic systems as refugees.

     “The most recent system to be liberated is the Zygerrian system under the rule of Queen Miraj Scintel, when several thousand Togruta slaves were abducted from their colonized world and forced into slavery.” Here Mace Windu glanced at Obi-Wan Kenobi and his Togruta apprentice, Ahsoka Tano. “Master Kenobi, if you would report on the involvement of this group in your mission.”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and began without delay. “As I understand it, the liberation of the Togruta people from Zygerria was the largest operation this new organisation has undertaken. From when my Padawan and I were there, I estimate there was approximately 800 people of varying species involved. From the number of slaves freed in the last year alone, this is around 10% of the number freed, including all children. Every single one of the previous set-ups has reportedly had many less involved, around a maximum of thirty and a minimum of five. It is my guess that for this particular operation many of those previously freed were required for it to be success due to the number of Togruta enslaved.” Obi-Wan folded his arms neatly into his sleeves and watched the Supreme Chancellor for a reaction.

Ahsoka Tano muttered, “How can you recite this all from the top of your head?” and was shushed by her master.

Palpatine politely clasped his fingers together, tactfully choosing to ignore Ahsoka’s slip. “Do go on, Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan hesitated, then continued. “It seems that for this particular operation the leaders were present. I believe that the instigators were originally from Tatooine.”

     “How many leaders?”

     “I believe there is one, but I can tell you little more about the organisation as a whole,” Obi-Wan said with a respectful incline of his head. “I was taken prisoner and it was only thanks to one group that I escaped. However, those who freed me, I believe, were only recently freed themselves from their respective home worlds. I was, however, able to find out a little of the leader.”

     “General Kenobi!” The Supreme Chancellor said delightedly. “Most excellent work. Do tell.”

Ahsoka noted the slight crease between her master’s eyebrows, and wondered absently why he disliked the Chancellor so much. The Chancellor was quite kind, particularly to her and Obi-Wan. He was always agreeable to everyone, actually, but to them, even more so.

     “I do not have a full name, but I believe he’s known by some as Starkiller. And yes, he is male and human. I also suspect him to be considerably young, perhaps twenty or so standard years. Former slave and Tatooinian.”

     “If I may interject here,” Ahsoka interrupted, “I think the Republic should help Starkiller.”

Obi-Wan gave her a raised eyebrow (she knew him well enough to know he agreed, privately, at least), Mace Windu flicked a glare in her direction (she knew him well enough to avoid eye contact), and she shrugged.

     “Why not? He’s saved an awful lot of people. And the Republic is supposed to work for the greater good of all sentient life forms, right?”

     “Very true,” Palpatine agreed. “But one thing at a time, my dear. The Republic does not possess enough resources to send out parties to aid Starkiller, and attempt to battle the Separatist forces at the same time. Perhaps when it is clear we will win the war, we will be able to afford to send troops for their aid. But at the moment it cannot simply be done.”

     “Thank you, your excellency,” Ahsoka said, somewhat bitterly, but disguising it well. Obi-Wan appeared to pick it up, however, and gave her a stern glance. The Chancellor smiled benevolently at her and turned back to Obi-Wan.

     “Master Kenobi, did you and your Padawan find out any more about Starkiller?”

     “I’m afraid not, your excellency.”

     “He’s tall,” Ahsoka said.

     “Most helpful, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan replied. “With the number of tall humans in the galaxy, it’s a _miracle_ we haven’t found him yet.”

     “Kenobi,” Windu warned. The Chancellor pretended to examine his fingernails.

     “My apologies, that was out of line,” Obi-Wan said. He turned back to the Chancellor. “I did try to find more for my own curiosity, being unaware than Starkiller would be of any import to the Republic, but I was recognised as a Jedi and denied any other information.”

Mace Windu’s eyebrows rose higher up his impressive forehead, and the Chancellor leaned forward interestedly.

     “Denied information for being a Jedi? How strange. Wouldn’t a Jedi’s status- yours in particular, Master Kenobi, if I may say so- garner more respect?”

     “That’s very kind, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan replied stiffly. “As of the moment we are unsure as to why this is. Continuing on the importance of Starkiller to the Republic, why is the sudden investigation necessary? A man freeing slaves from Outer Rim planets hardly seems like the sort of the thing the Republic would take interest in.”

     “The reason, Master Kenobi, is that I have recently received a Holo-message from Jabba the Hutt,” Chancellor Palpatine said grimly. “I could tell you the content of the message myself, but I suspect you would want to view it yourselves.” When Master Windu nodded assent, Chancellor Palpatine waved a hand over the Holo-projector’s motion activator, and it clunked into life.

The wavery figure of Jabba the Hutt appeared, flickering blue, and his recorded voice boomed through the room, with the slightly nervous voice of a protocol droid translating.

     “ _The illustrious Jabba requests the aid of the Republic in a severe matter that began on Tatooin_ e,” the droid said with a slight inclination of its head, voice slightly wobbly from the poor quality transmission. “ _A dangerous group of criminals have been stealing the property of many of Lord Jabba’s most loyal contacts, and committing murder against the Hutt empire and allied worlds_.”

     “’Criminals?’” Ahsoka asked angrily. “Basic sentient rights are supposed to be-”

     “Padawan,” Obi-Wan reminded her, “this is a recording. If you wish to speak to Jabba in person, I would recommend you accompany me on this mission."

     “Mission? But master, nothing’s really been said yet-”

     “May I also remind you that you are causing a scene in the Chancellor’s office?”

     “Oh. Yes.” Turning pink beneath the white marking on her cheeks, Ahsoka turned back to the recording, behind which the Chancellor, once again, was tactfully pretending nothing had happened.

     “ _The most eminent Jabba remembers the Jedi rescue of his son Rotta at the beginning of the Clone Wars and requests your aid once more in bringing down the leader of a band of fugitives_.”

     “’Fugitives’,” Ahsoka muttered whilst Obi-Wan cast her a calming glance.

      “ _Lord Jabba suggests if the Jedi order is not capable of arresting this person, the Separatists may be able to do so_.” Then Jabba began a spiel in Huttese, while the droid waited patiently for him to finish.

      “He still intends to ask the Separatists even after the abduction of his son?” Obi-Wan said, amazed. “That doesn’t sound like Jabba. I would have expected him to be far more vengeful and refuse to even let them go anywhere near a system under Hutt control.”

     “They didn’t even have any terms,” Ahsoka pointed out, her anger simmering. “Just ‘capture this guy and neither of us will gain anything.’ We shouldn’t do anything. I mean, firstly, it’s the right thing to let this gang go around freeing people, and secondly, it’s not like the Republic would get anything out of it. ”

     “There _are_ terms, young Tano,” Palpatine said with a thin smile. “Continue listening.”

Jabba boomed out a few more words, then fell silent. “T _he mighty Jabba offers a reward for those who manage to capture and deliver the fugitive to his palace, alive. If this criminal is captured by bounty hunters, the reward will be worth one million Republic credits_.”

Ahsoka choked. “One million-”

Obi-Wan gently shushed her and did not look away from the recording.

Such a large amount! And most Hutt bounties were generally a maximum of two or three-hundred thousand credits; it was almost unheard of to have anything larger than that.

If the bounty was that large, and Jabba wanted help from the Jedi or Separatists, then it could only mean he was truly desperate. The leader was obviously not just irritating, but dangerous.

     “ _If captured by either Republic forces or Separatist forces, the reward shall be permission to construct military bases in all Hutt systems, and safe passage through said systems_."

It was Obi-Wan’s turn to choke, but he didn’t. Instead, he permitted his eyes to widen, and stroked his beard.

     “ _However, the leader of this band of criminals must be caught within the next week, or all rewards will be forfeit_.” Then the recording froze and faded out of sight.

      “Just as brief, to the point, and polite as always,” Obi-Wan observed. “There is obviously an anticipated attack, and the Hutts wish to cut their losses.”

     “Could just leave it,” Ahsoka suggested. “Let the Hutts lose all their slaves and have a more honest source of income.”

Obi-Wan did not reply.

     “That would never happen,” Chancellor Palpatine replied serenely, folding his shrivelled hands together neatly. “A loss of slaves would only ensure that more worlds and ships be attacked by the Hutt clan. More citizens of the Republic, not just current slaves, would be subjected to the servitude we have attempted to wipe from the galaxy.”

     “With respect, your excellency,” Ahsoka said, “if the Republic had- had gotten rid of slavery when it first appeared, then no one would be dealing with it at the moment!”

Chancellor Palpatine surveyed Obi-Wan’s Padawan with concern, nodding at her point thoughtfully. Obi-Wan suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort, particularly at seeing the Chancellor’s interest in his Padawan.

 _Leave her alone_ , he thought. _She is a Jedi, and will not be swayed or manipulated by a politician._ To be quite honest, Obi-Wan was concerned with the attention the Chancellor placed in his Padawan. 

No, 'concerned' wasn't  _really_ the right word. He just didn't like it.

Mace Windu gave the younger knight a curious look, before directing his attention back to the Supreme Chancellor.

     “A fair point, young Tano,” Palpatine agreed, patting her amiably on the shoulder. “If our ancestors had taken more care in turning the galaxy into a place of free living for all forms of life, sentient, semi-sentient and otherwise, slavery would not be an issue. Unfortunately as this was not the case, the Republic can only act in its best interests in this time of war.

     “I am most concerned with the fact that this message seems to have been shared with the Separatists,” Palpatine continued worriedly, standing and beginning to pace. “If they should send Dooku, or his apprentice-”

     “Ah, Ventress is no longer Dooku’s apprentice,” Obi-Wan interjected. “They had a- falling-out. I believe Dooku is most likely searching for another Force-sensitive to corrupt.”

Ahsoka smirked. The hairless harpy wasn’t going to bother them again… probably.

     “I see,” Palpatine said, resuming his pacing, robes of office billowing out behind him. “Even so, the Separatist alliance is still quite capable of capturing one man, whether there are more than one Sith or not. I worry what will happen if they do succeed. The results could be disastrous. Military bases and safe passage… this could very well turn the tide of the war against the Republic.”

     “Then there is no time to lose,” Master Windu said, speaking for the first time in a long while. “Master Kenobi, Padawan Tano. The council has already discussed the possibility of you two being sent on this mission to the planet Jakku, where we believe he is currently working. Now that you are aware of the details, do you accept?”

     “Yes,” Obi-Wan said.

 _Well_ , Ahsoka thought, _naturally he would_.

And just like that, Ahsoka was suddenly part of an operation aimed to capture a good person, all for the benefit for a horrible one. She wished, more than anything, that she had the authority to refuse the mission, or to make other people listen to her: This was a bad mission.

But Ahsoka Tano was ‘unwise, irresponsible, and a loose blaster’. Which seemed to override anything good she had to offer. She’d bet her Akul-tooth headdress that if it was someone else, their actions would be overlooked. The Chosen One of the prophecies could probably act like her (probably worse) and get away with it. It was a fluke that she was sent to be Obi-Wan’s Padawan. He wanted an apprentice, she was tightly tangled into the Temple’s many hairs, and, at least to the long-suffering creche masters, it was the perfect opportunity to be rid of a nuisance.

And in her defence, her time as Obi-Wan’s apprentice _had_ made her a far more responsible young Jedi. She was a commander, she was _reliable_ , she had experience, and she valued the lives of the clone troopers. What else was there she could do? Yes, maybe she could improve her control over emotions a little more, her lightsaber skills always had room for improvement, and she hoped to yet grow more powerful in the Force, but… was the fact that she could still improve a reason that her and her fellow Padawans’ ideas often went unnoticed?

And this was _terrible_. This man, Starkiller, was helping people! And the Jedi, and the Chancellor (to a lesser extent, anyway), just wanted him to be captured so they could construct some base which would, likely as not, make absolutely no difference in the outcome of the war.

     “Thank you for this opportunity,” she said sweetly. Master Windu looked slightly mollified, the Chancellor looked relieved, and Obi-Wan looked extremely suspicious.

Time to go, she supposed.


	2. Chapter 2

The senate: a messy band of politicians precariously shovelled together into small pods that were, to be quite honest, not far enough apart so as to avoid fistfights between planetary representatives. The last session had seen the eventful brawl between Representative Dido from the small democratic planet of Achilaris, and Mensho Tibani of the industrial Balosar. The former had left the senate in triumph, albeit with a broken wrist and six missing teeth, but Dido counted it as a victory nonetheless. Tibani, on the other hand, had not been seen since, and rumours were flying about that ze was still recovering in a Coruscanti hospital from zir injuries, which were, according to said rumours, ranging from life-threatening to just plain embarrassing.

Regardless of the events of the previous session, _this_ session was dangerously close to breaking out into yet another fistfight, this time between the representatives of Naalol and Radix.

 As the two politicians screamed at each other and raised threatening fists, Padmé Amidala of Naboo looked across the senate, directly into Bail Organa of Alderaan’s eyes, and both despaired.

 The behaviour of the senate was not surprising. Even before the war started, it was considered normal for representatives to threaten each other personally with violence, spewing insults from physical appearances to ‘what-your-mother-did’. Interruptions were common, foul language was expected, yet actual, _physical_ violence… well, it was rare, but not unheard of. And now that the war had been raging on for a few years, the stress of battle had led to systems leaving the Republic to become Separatist or independent; worry over invasion had all but stopped some of the intergalactic trade routes, and… well, propriety had dropped altogether.

 Padmé narrowed her eyes fractionally and nodded her head towards the fighting pair.

  _I can take_ _‘em._

It was perhaps unfortunate Bail understood her as well as he did; he choked on his own saliva and had to be pounded on the back until he recovered, gasping, eyes watering.

 Padmé reminded herself to apologise later, and directed her attention back to the near-brawl.

 Naalol’s Twi’lek representative, Shen’Daren, raised a yellow fist and spat at Radix’s Trandoshan Ghin Deck, whose scaly hide was flushing with anger even under her green scales.

      “A _mercenary,_ ” Shen’Daren scoffed at whatever Deck’s point had been. “What would a descendant of _criminals_ and _bounty hunters_ know of politics?” He leaned forward menacingly. The effect was wasted. However intimidating Shen’Daren seemed to think he was, Ghin Deck was a full foot taller, and broader in every aspect. It didn’t hurt that Trandoshans were typically one of the species endowed with muscles capable of near Jedi feats.

      “Certainly more than the child of one of Jabba’s _kzhint,_ ” Deck replied in a beat, eyes narrowing into slits.

 Padmé cringed inwardly, and was unsurprised by the horrified reactions of those in the neighbouring pods. As Daren screeched and lunged across the pods, his attendants diving for his ankles to pull him back, Padmé flicked her gaze to the Supreme Chancellor. Who appeared to be despairing.

 The man stood in his pod, mouth opening to say something, then closing it again as he realised whatever he said would likely not make a difference in the verbal battle taking place below. Eventually he decided on, “This session has ended,” and slunk off, presumably to hide in his office.

      “The Republic _cannot_ survive is they continue to engage in war!” Deck raged, all restraint gone now that the Supreme Chancellor had left. “These battles will lead only to more destruction!” She landed a punch into Daren’s belly.

 A low _ooh_ billowed out from that pod.

      “ _Says-_ “ Daren tried, words punctuated with wheezes, “ _the- Trandoshan…”_

 _I’ve had enough,_ Padmé thought coldly, and sidled around Jar Jar to freedom from argumentative politicians.

 Outside, when she escaped a few other politicians and was waved past the safe zone by a troop of weary clones, was cool and refreshing. The smell of exhaust was in the air, as it always was, but Padmé didn’t particularly care. It was away from the brawls, and none of the senators would dare spoil their image by fighting in public as well as the senate. It was already damaging enough fighting in view of holocameras, but a fight seen real and tangible in the eyes of civilians would shatter their reputations irreparably.

 Padmé’s astromech whistled and trailed after her.

 Droids were not permitted on the senate floor. It was understandable enough; if they were allowed, it would simply be a matter of disguising an assassin droid to rid the galaxy of quarrelsome politicians. Not even droids that were clearly _not_ dangerous in that sense were not permitted. That was why Artoo had had to wait.

 Artoo beeped a few words in Binary, and the translator on Padmé’s wrist scrolled the meaning past the small viewscreen.

      “A message from Senator Organa?” she asked, frowning at the message. “That was quick. He’s probably only just leaving the senate now.”

 The droid whistled a little more.

      “Oh goodness yes, I need a distraction. What did he specify?”

      “I haven’t seen Mon in person for ages. His senatorial suite, now?”

 Artoo _bleeped_ the affirmative.

      “Well, tell him that I’m on my way.”

 At least at Bail’s, they might forget the problems going on in the senate.

 

***

 

     “The behaviour in the senate is _deplorable_ ,” Bail said irritably, pouring Padmé a glass of an amber liquid. Mon had stayed for dinner, but excused herself a little earlier, having an appointment with a representative of some system Padmé had never heard of. Now it was just Padmé and Bail having after-dinner drinks, complaining about colleagues and the senate in general.

 Padmé , humming in reply, drained the glass off, and slumped back into the soft chairs of his senatorial apartment. Her shoes were kicked somewhere across the room, presumably on a table or something, but Bail hardly cared about her untidiness. He was good that way. He often mentioned his wife, Breha, could be a little scatterbrained sometimes and leave possessions littered everywhere. Padmé supposed he was used to her mess, and so Padmé’s didn’t bother him.

      “Even with the stress we are all under, no one should have to resort to this violence. The senate is supposed to be peaceful and open to negotiations,” he continued, pouring a glass for himself and glaring at the bottle. He threw himself into the chair across from her and gave a long resigned groan.

      “You can say that again,” Padmé agreed, folding her legs up beneath her. “One more fistfight and we’ll be conducting sessions on holoscreens, privately from our apartments.”

 Bail, slumping in his chair until his head was at level with the armrest, stared moodily into his glass of brandy. “Might we get things done if that were the case?”

 Padmé grunted and rolled her head back. “No. Someone will accuse someone else of being a Separatist in disguise, then said person will retaliate by beating them up at a restaurant or something. Public humiliation. No one will take us seriously. Nothing good, to be brief.”

 Bail made an ugly groan and took a large swig of the brandy.

 They settled into uncomfortable silence.

      “The worst part,” Padmé said after a while, “is that this is our most desperate hour. So many troops have been lost on the battlefields, and the senate is too scared to do anything besides fight each other.”

      “Well, I don’t think that they won’t do _anything,_ ” Bail disagreed thoughtfully, swilling the drink. “But there isn’t really anywhere to go at the moment, is there?”

      “There’s always to death,” Padmé offered, deadpan.

 Bail gave her an exhausted look.

      “Sorry. My head’s not clear. It wasn’t a good joke.”

 He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’d laugh, but…” he made to shrug, but all that happened was his chin squashed further into his neck and he looked more tired. “No.”

      “Mmm.” Padmé’s head was beginning to fog from the liquor. There were only two possible outcomes when she drank. The first was blurred vision, and usually a few choice swear words thrown casually into conversation like punctuation, with later passing out. The second was sudden enhancement of the mind. When she’d been queen of Naboo, she’d been under a lot of stress just after the invasion. Sabé had poured her a shot of _something,_ then handed it her with a blank expression. “You’ll thank me later,” she’d told her.

 She’d thanked her right _then,_ after she stopped coughing and gasping from the burn, and after she asked whether it was _legal_ for a still-underage queen to drink, and she was sure that Sabé, as a underaged person too, was not allowed to distribute nor consume alcohol. Regardless, her head had felt clearer and everything was… _sharper._

 Of course, that effect wasn’t guaranteed, the next time she’d tried it, Eirtaé had found her face down on the ground behind a pillar. “Lightweight,” she’d muttered, shaking her head. “Sabé diluted the last one with water. Never do that again.”

 Well, before Padmé spiralled into a haze of curses, it would be best if she made do with the stimulus she had been given. “What do you think the Separatist senate are thinking?”

 Bail blinked. “You mean as a whole? The war, presumably.”

      “ _No,_ ” Padmé said, waving a hand and feeling the glass slip from her fingers. She caught it bashfully, and leaned down to place it on the ground. She’d trip over it later, probably, but the risk was lesser now. “I mean, what are they _thinking_ about? What’s their opinion on the war?”

 Bail straightened in his seat and looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure. But the production of droids would be quite a tax on their resources, wouldn’t it?”

      “No more than the Republic’s on the clones,” Padmé said bitterly. Then she tried to think on the lighter side. “But that would certainly dissuade the greedier systems from pursuing the war further.”

 Were they on to something? Or was this all just fruitless hypothesising?

 Bail seemed to think the former. “However… _extremist_ we find the Separatist cause, there must be some reasonable senators amongst the lot. If a message could be sent out, or if a committee of Republic and Separatist senators were to meet…” he trailed off.

      “Then, a cooperation accord may be able to be signed.” Suddenly, Padmé ’s head felt clearer. “Of course, it would depend upon an agreement being reached, but there’s still a chance.”

 Bail leaned on his arm and assumed an expression that Padmé knew meant he was thinking deeply. “What-” he started, then stopped and frowned. “Who are the members of the Separatist senate? Do we know anyone?”

 Padmé blinked and frowned. It was at _these_ times alcohol was not ideal. It was good for concepts. Not _remembering._

      “I remember By Bluss, and he seemed reasonable,” Bail recalled. He absently leaned forward and placed his glass on his low carved table.

      “He was a member of the Republic senate before his system left the Republic,” Padmé said. “There was also…” she thought hard.

 Who did she know?

 Unfortunately since the birth of the Separatist… what was it exactly? It had a senate, and seemed to be ruled by democracy, with every senator in its senate having equal voting rights, but Padmé knew better. Dooku would do whatever it took to ensure things came out _his_ way.

 Ever since the battle of Geonosis, a horrible and death-ridden fight Padmé had had the great fortune to be nowhere near, she had not seen many of her friends from the senate. Many of their planets and systems had retreated from the republic out of fear, and some had even joined the separatists. There was… let’s see. Onderan, Gossam…

      “There’s Mina Bonteri,” Padmé realised with great relief. “I haven’t seen her for a long time, but she was my mentor. We used to keep in contact, but I haven’t spoken to her for over a year. And there’s… Amita Fonti! From Gossam. I think her system joined the separatist cause for… trade routes? Gossam’s always been quite out of the way.”

      “I suppose there must be others we don’t know of,” Bail suggested, looking far more hopeful than he had minutes ago. “If we could make contact with those we know to be of the same mind…”

      “Mina,” Padmé said immediately. “She’ll know exactly what to do. If we get in touch again, I can ask her to talk to any others in the Separatist senate.”

 Bail grinned. “And I suppose we can at least pretend there’s a backup plan, if we can’t make contact or are refused.”

      “And this backup plan would be…?” Padmé asked.

      “This latest Jedi mission.”

 Padmé frowned. She usually knew exactly what the Jedi were doing, provided it related to politics and not troop manoeuvres. And even so, she sometimes heard from the Supreme Chancellor, who had taken quite a liking to her when she first addressed the senate as Queen. “I didn’t hear about this. What’s happening?”

      “Oh. I would have thought you’d have been told. Aren’t you familiar with Jedi?”

 Once, perhaps. Master Qui-Gon and his apprentice Obi-Wan Kenobi. She hadn’t seen Kenobi since the battle of Naboo, and Qui-Gon had died there. It was true that when she was an assassination target, a young, very serious Jedi named Aayla Secura had been dispatched as her bodyguard. She was a nice girl, and she and Padmé had gotten along well, but they rarely spoke now that the war had begun.

 Although Padmé had not spoken to Obi-Wan Kenobi, she had spoken to his Padawan, a sweet young Togruta named Ahsoka. But she was still just a Padawan, and mostly disappeared with her master on different missions.

 Perhaps she did get on with the Jedi better than most, but the only one she consistently spoke to was of no standing to tell her of important missions.

      “I knew Master Kenobi and Master Secura, and I’m familiar with his apprentice Ahsoka, but I haven’t heard anything from her.”

      “Obi-Wan Kenobi? I went with him on a mission a while back.”

      “Ooh?” Padmé said interestedly. “What was he like? What was the mission?”

      “I can’t tell you about the mission, that’s high-security,” Bail said. He remembered that she hadn’t actually known it was a mission; he’d told her he was visiting Breha for an unspecified amount of time. She’d raised a shaped eyebrow and smiled knowingly. Anyway.

      “Are you supposed to have mentioned it at all?” Padmé asked slyly.

 Bail snorted. “Probably not. But I think it’s unlikely that you or any Nabooans are separatists, especially given the Trade Federation are part of the Separatist cause.”

      “You never know,” Padmé replied. “I could be a - I don’t know.”

      “Yes, I’m sure you’re a Separatist. Anyway, you asked about Obi-Wan?”

      “I did?” she looked puzzled for a second, and then her confusion cleared. “Yes, I did.”

      “Well, he’s pretentious as _anything,”_ Bail groaned. Padmé snickered. “And he _despises_ politicians. Doesn’t matter who they are or what they’ve done. He’d probably faint if took one step into the senate.”

     “Ooh, all those scary senators.” Padmé held back a laugh. “You sound a little critical of your dear friend Master Kenobi. I thought you were friends?”

      “It took a lot of trauma for that to happen,” Bail said grimly. “To him, mostly. I just saved his life a few times.”

 Indeed he had. The whole adventure on Zigoola was mostly Bail running around after Obi-Wan, saving him every time he had a fit and carrying him. Although Bail could hardly resent Obi-Wan for the effect the Sith world had on him, he _could_ , however, remember carrying him around with bitterness and a sort of dark amusement. And all before that had been Obi-Wan side-eyeing him distrustfully.

      “‘Just saved his life’,” Padmé mimicked. “And that has somehow overcome his fear of politicians?”

      “No. But it took a very long time for me to get any sort of civility from him.”

 Padmé sat back. “Well. The Negotiator despises politicians. What can I do with this information?”

      “Avoid him,” Bail suggested jokingly. “Or I could introduce you.”

      “I do know him,” Padmé reminded him, with a smile. “Just not very well.”

      “Yes, I suppose so,” Bail said.

 Padmé snickered again.

      “What?”

      “It’s noth-”

 Bail raised an eyebrow questioningly.

      “Oh, alright; I just find it funny that _Obi-Wan Kenobi,_ the Jedi’s favourite negotiator, hates politicians. He practically _is_ a politician. In fact, had he not been a Jedi, I’m almost certain he would have become a senator. It’s just so _hypocritical._ ”

      “That’s the Jedi, though,” Bail agreed. Then he twitched, and looked slightly guilty. “Don’t tell anyone I think that. I’m one of the only non-Jedi allowed in the temple.”

      “Your secret is safe,” Padmé said, grinning. “But quite honestly, I’m not sure I agree with some of the Jedi values.”

      “Which ones?”

 She looked thoughtful. “Well… it’s not exactly a _value,_ but I dislike the stance on slavery.”

 He was surprised to hear that, to be quite honest. “That’s not exactly the Jedi’s fault, though.”

 Padmé grimaced. “I know it’s not, a lot of it is to do with the senate’s lack of action. And the Jedi order is supposed to be separate to the senate, and yet they continue to follow the senate’s actions on that part.”

 Bail winced. Padmé would _not_ be pleased to hear the news he had been given by Chancellor Palpatine. “There’s- well, you know how before I was talking about the ‘back-up’ plan?”

 Padmé’s expression turned stony. “I think I can guess,” she said, somewhat coolly. “But give me the details.”

 Bail began, watching Padmé’s face carefully. “You know the radical group releasing slaves all over the galaxy?”

Padmé’s expression grew tightER. “Yes. I assume you’re referring to the group that saved the Togruta slaves on Zygerria?”

 Bail nodded, and felt regretful that he had to tell her this. “The Hutts have sent a message saying that if the leader is caught, the Republic will be allowed to build a base on all the Hutt worlds.”

      “And the Republic has sent the Jedi to do the dirty work,” Padmé finished. She looked tired, and worse, resigned. “I suppose it would make a difference, but a peaceful solution would doubtless work better for all parties. Who have they sent?”

      “Obi-Wan,” Bail admitted, “and his Padawan. As I understand it, the Chancellor said she put up a bit of a fight against being involved.”

      “At least someone’s sensible,” Padmé said bitterly. “I expected better from Kenobi…”

      “I think he is reluctant as his Padawan, but didn’t want to make a scene. Obi-Wan isn’t the kind of person to just agree to a mission without any consideration.” Bail noted that Padmé had dispensed with Obi-Wan’s title. “You have history with slavery?”

 Padmé sniffed. “I’d really rather not talk about it.”

      “I understand.”

 Padmé looked suddenly weary, and the traces of bruises under her eyes could be seen.

      “Excuse me Bail, but I probably should go. Thank you for dinner, and the drink.” She remembered to pick up her glass before she crushed it accidentally, and placed it on the table as she rose from her seat. Then she turned apologetically. “I’m sorry, that was abrupt. I may talk about it later, but my head isn’t clear.”

 Bail shook his head, “It’s fine. I’ll see you in the senate tomorrow.”

 She nodded. “Thanks for understanding.”

 He made to get up to escort her to the door, but she waved him away with an ‘it’s fine, I’ll see myself out,’ and she disappeared without another word.

 He sat there for a few minutes, then shook his head, and stood. It was like a black hole out his window, even the bright lights of nearby buildings seemed sort of subdued.

 He’d call Breha, he decided, and then go to sleep. He’d talk to Obi-Wan in the morning about the mission, if he was even still on Coruscant. He just couldn’t stop thinking of Padmé’s distaste, and wondered _why,_ exactly, she was more upset over this than anything else.


	3. Chapter 3

After the briefing, Ahsoka tried to dash away as quickly as possible, but Obi-Wan did not let her.

     “Padawan,”Obi-Wan said sternly, and Ahsoka froze on her way down the corridor. She turned rigidly, and smiled.

     “Yes, master? I was going to pack for the mission,”she explained, looking keen to edge away from the actual purpose of the mission, but Obi-Wan would have none of it.

     “Ahsoka, you do not need to _pretend_ to be comfortable with this mission. If you do not wish to participate, you need only say.”

The fixed smile vanished from her face, and her posture slumped. Obi-Wan distinctly felt that his apprentice was relieved she did not have to keep up a pretence. “You’re right, master. I don’t have a good feeling about this mission.”

Obi-Wan took a few steps closer to her, and folded his arms into his robes sleeves. “Tell me. Have you experienced a premonition about the mission?”

Ahsoka shook her head, blue-and-white striped lekku swinging. “No. It’s nothing very- very _Jedi-_ like.”

     “Ah,” Obi-Wan said, faintly mystified. Ahsoka could be odd sometimes, but it was through no fault of her own. She tried her very best to stick to the Jedi code, she was honest and hardworking, but sometimes she allowed her own uneasiness or passion get the better of her.

Still, however hard he tried, trying to figure her out was sometimes like sorting through a pile of puzzle pieces. They looked similar enough, but it was difficult to slot them together unless he knew what he was doing.

Obi-Wan had no experience with unruly Padawans, save his own apprenticeship and his difficult rivalry with Bruck Chun. He supposed if he had taken a Padawan earlier, perhaps after Qui-Gon had died…but what was he thinking? His emotional state after his master’s death would have _never_ allowed him to properly train a young Jedi. It was better this way. Perhaps after Ahsoka was knighted in some years, he would better understand his next Padawan.

     “Please explain,”he said kindly.

Ahsoka grimaced. “I just-”she began, tapping her feet against the floor awkwardly, trying to find the right words.

     “You needn’t be delicate. Speak honestly. Manner can be worked on later.”

     “I don’t like the mission,”she blurted. “I don’t like that we’re going to capture a- a _freedom fighter,_ then hand him over to the Hutts.”

     “Go on.”

     “I mean, I understand that the reward might be what the Republic needs, but…well, bases have been set up on planets before, and they never made a difference, did they?”

     “Effectiveness also depends on placement,” Obi-Wan said. “A base on Tatooine, for example, would be ideal. It’s around the same distance from Geonosis as it is from Naboo. The proximity to both a Republic and a Separatist world would be mutually advantageous for the military and for the Naboo.”

     “Because it’d be backup for the military, and close defense for Naboo in case of invasion, right?”

     “Correct.” Ahsoka, whatever faults she may have, was undoubtedly quick. “I believe that’s why the Chancellor is so _eager-_ _”_ he tried to stop himself sounding irritated with mention of the Chancellor, but failed, “-to have this man found. As one of the primary Hutt planets, _and_ the residence of Jabba, it’s perfect militarily, and those stationed there would be able to keep an eye on the Hutt clan there.”

     “I get that, I _do_ ,”Ahsoka said irritably. “I understand that! But it’s also another base to defend, and we’ve already a limited number of soldiers, and it’s not fair to send cadet clones out before their training’s properly finished. And it isn’t good either to capture someone who’s making a difference with the slavery problem.”

Obi-Wan nodded. The situation really was somewhat less than ideal. But there wasn’t really all that much that could done. Although it was awful to say so, and he felt bad even just _thinking_ it, unfortunately the Republic as an entirety was really more important than just one slave-freer. This organisation would not collapse because one person was gone. Or he hoped not, anyway.

But Obi-Wan had the strong feeling that the reasons Ahsoka just provided were not, in fact, all she had to say. She had, after all, stated barely minutes ago that she had non-Jedi-like reasons for not wishing to partake in this mission.

     “Ahsoka, is there anything else about this that may be bothering you? I am aware of your position on slavery, but this feels more personal.”

She bit her lip hesitantly, and her eyes darted to the side.

A sure sign she had more to say, but either did not know how to phrase it, or did not wish to tell Obi-Wan.

     “Remember, a Jedi must allow themselves to let go of their emotions for the greater good. Explain, and we can discuss this civilly. To bottle up doubts is to cause yourself pain,” Obi-Wan told her.

She sighed heavily from her nose. “It feels _wrong_ going after Starkiller. I mean, not just because he’s helping people, but-” she paused, and huffed again. “I _owe_ him.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrow took a climb further up towards his hairline. “Owe him? Why do you feel so?”

Ahsoka looked like talking about it was literally the most painful thing she had ever discussed. “Well,” she said, wrenching the words out of her mouth, “he saved my people on Zygerria.” Then her white cheek patterns flushed in a Togruta blush. “I mean, the _Jedi_ are my people, but I still feel really-”

     “Attached?” Obi-Wan asked. He understood now. Ahsoka’s uncertainty lay with the fact that the group had saved her people, and she was now to be sent on a mission to interfere with their goals and capture their leader

Ahsoka nodded.

     “There’s no shame in that, Padawan. They are your _species._ Whatever you may have lost from being raised a Jedi, you are still a Togruta.”

     “Oh?” Ahsoka looked relieved.

     “If you _act_ upon that attachment, without thinking of the larger picture, that’s when it becomes an issue,” Obi-Wan said confidently. Then he felt a twinge somewhere in his chest, and knew precisely where that originated from. “Look. When I was your age, I abandoned the order.”

     “What?” Ahsoka looked absolutely horrified. “That’s not true. You’re the perfect Jedi, this can’t be-”

     “-it is true,” Obi-Wan finished. “I won’t go into detail, but it was a _bad decision._ I thought it was right, but it most certainly was not, and many people died. It wasn’t exactly my fault, but my presence inflamed many. I was barely allowed to return to the Jedi.”

     “Why did you leave?”

     “Because I thought the cause was worthy. Maybe in a different universe, it was the right decision. But then, it _wasn_ _’_ _t._ The Jedi order is looked up to for a reason, Ahsoka.”

Ahsoka’s look of horror was dying down a little, but she insisted upon looking uncomfortable.

     “It’s just I don’t feel comfortable-” ah, and there it was,“-being sent to do something I disagree with,”Ahsoka said, anxiety reappearing. Obi-Wan sighed internally. Had everything he’d said been a waste? “It feels like I made him a promise, and then I’m breaking it for some Hutt.” Then a look of petrification came over her face. Her orange complexion paled, until she looked quite ill. “Do you think Jabba’ll _kill_ him?”

     “I don’t know,”Obi-Wan said warily. “It’s a possibility. However, I think it’s more likely he’ll be enslaved.”

Ahsoka looked even more distraught.

     “Padawan, you forget he was a slave _before._ It should be very easy for him to escape.”

     “But not 100% certain,”Ahsoka argued. “And if they kill him, or enslave him, or _whatever,_ what’s going to happen to the organisation? What about all the slaves?”

Had Ahsoka been this concerned about slaves before the Zygerrian mission? He didn’t think so. Now, for her, it was personal. He silently wished he had not taken her.

     “Ahsoka, the organisation will adapt. It’s made up of hundreds of ex-slaves. They will _know what to do._ ”

She still looked extremely uneasy.

Obi-Wan sighed. “If you are worried about the mission, you do not have to come-”

     “I’ll come,”Ahsoka said immediately. “I don’t agree, I don’t think I ever will. But-”

He waited patiently.

     “-it’s _necessary,_ ”Ahsoka finished, somewhat sourly. Her nose was slightly puckered in a look of distaste.

Obi-Wan nodded, and began to walk. “Thank you for being honest. I hope that this mission may clear some up some misunderstandings about attachment,”he said. “If you’re sure you wish to attend this mission, I suggest you go find Knight Thel-Tanis or Knight Olin. They’ve had experience with undercover missions, and may be able to provide you with advice and clothing.” And a successful mission Ferus Olin and Darra Thel-Tanis had performed. As Padawans the two had gone undercover to a prestigious private school to investigate the disappearance of a student. It had been only from their determination that the student had been found and arrested for faking his own death and plotting murder. Ferus understood detachment perfectly, and would be a great help to Ahsoka if she listened to him.

Obi-Wan felt Ahsoka hesitate behind him, then abruptly spin around and run off, apparently to find the two knights.

He sighed. Things were becoming complicated, which was not ideal for the situation. It really was best that he talk to Master Yoda before they left. He would know what to do.

 

***

 

Dooku wrapped himself in his cloak and stepped out into the hot sunlight of Jakku. What should have been a welcome change to the cool, conditioned temperature of a spaceship was in fact not dissimilar from a cruel blow. The heat struck him like a backhanded slap to the face, even protected as he was by the cowl of his cloak.

A small alien, apparently a worker of this docking bay, waddled up to him confidently and squawked something about payment, or hire, in poorly executed Basic.

     “You’ll be paid once I leave this planet,” Dooku told the figure curtly. The alien, whether them was stubborn or just stupid, insisted that payment had to happen _now,_ and no other time.

Dooku flicked back the edge of his hood just a little to reveal his hard eyes.

Nothing happened. The creature suggested that Dooku might have been deaf, and added that if he did not pay immediately, he would be forcibly removed from the planet.

Dooku was uncertain as to whether he should laugh or snarl. It was irritating to be hassled by this pathetic little creature of indeterminate species or sex, yet it was amusing to see said _animal_ unafraid. It was odd; most beings would shrivel backwards in fear, or at the very least blanch to a shade of white like snow.

The creature stared at him snappishly through large compound eyes. One greyish eyelid twitched sideways across the orb.

Not the standard response. This creature was either exceedingly stupid, or incredibly brave. Ignorant and greedy were also options, but there was a hazed feel about the alien that led Dooku to believe the former. Just foolish.

Dooku gave a poisonous smile to the alien, and reached out a withered hand.

He didn’t like fools. In his service they were useful, in his path they were bothersome.

The alien recoiled, and reached a webbed hand up to their throat as some unseen Force wrapped around its neck and squeezed.

A few sounds sputtered out of the creature’s mouth, which was gaping wide open to reveal a mouth empty of teeth.

     “I’d apologise if I were you. I don’t think you quite understand what I’m telling you,” Dooku told the choking alien coldly.

There were greenish tears dribbling down their shrivelled face into that wide mouth. Something else, mucus or bodily fluids, began leaking down their wide face as them desperately attempted to cough a few words out.

 _Pathetic._ This little creature who had been, moments before, angrily defending their docking bay, was reduced to a quivering mess.

Dooku twisted his outstretched hand a little, and the alien’s gasping hitched, and fell silent. The twisting grey hands clutched tighter around their throat as their face began turning yellow. A colour change of the face was a sure sign of suffocation in any species.

     “I will be here for an undetermined period of time,” he said dangerously.

The creature squeaked as Dooku released his grip of their neck just a fraction to ensure the creature wouldn’t die on him. A thin _hiss_ of air escaped.

     “I expect my ship to be fully operational by the time I return. Have I made myself clear?”

The alien nodded frantically, still tearful. Dooku dropped his hand, and the creature collapsed to the ground, retching and choking on their hands and knees. They looked fearfully up at Dooku with their compound eyes, and Dooku made a motion with his hand again.

They flinched backwards, leaning into themself, little shoulders hunched. Dooku gave a satisfied curl of the lip, and left them weeping on the ground.

 

***

Obi-Wan questioned a few Padawans of the whereabouts of Master Yoda, and soon found himself directed to the Room of a Thousand Fountains. When he wound himself through the maze of the Jedi temple

Master Yoda was sitting on a smooth grey stone, watching the fountains spray glistening drops that fell into the pool. His old stick was resting against the side of the stone, and Obi-Wan felt distinctly reluctant to break him from his meditation. As the Grand Master of the Jedi order, younger, insecure Jedi often harassed Yoda on a number of things, ranging from the best meditations forms to the positioning of clone legions.

     “Speak, Obi-Wan,” Yoda said, cracking an eye open and staring at him.

     “Master Yoda,”Obi-Wan began, slowing down and coming to an abrupt halt in front of the ancient Jedi Master, who closed his eyes again. “I-“

     “Doubts, you have, about Tano’s part in the mission.”Yoda interrupted.

     “Yes, master. I don’t believe she agrees with the mission.” Obi-Wan didn’t bother to ask how Yoda knew that. He was, after all, the most powerful being in the Force in the galaxy.

Yoda opened his watery little eyes and gave Obi-Wan a distinct stare that clearly meant he felt the younger Jedi’s thoughts through the Force. “Most powerful, hmm?”

Obi-Wan internally grimaced.

Thankfully, Yoda did not press on it. “Doubts about Tano, why do you have?”

Obi-Wan folded his arms into his robe sleeves, imagining for a few seconds that even from here, at the other side of the temple, he could hear the young Togruta grumbling and swearing as she packed her few belongings for a mission she did not wish to go on. Master Yoda allowed the few grey hairs occupying the area where his eyebrows would be raise. Obi-Wan winced.

     “She feels she owes this slave-freer.”

Master Yoda let out a faint questioning _hmm_ , waiting for Obi-Wan to elaborate.

     “Her people, the Togruta…the last mission we went on affected her deeply. Seeing her people without any control of their future…it did something to her.”

     “What, Master Kenobi?”Master Yoda asked. The dulcet tones of Ahsoka’s imaginary cursing faded from Obi-Wan’s mind.

     “It made her realise that the Jedi are not the most powerful beings.”

     “Tell you this, did she?”

     “No, master,”Obi-Was said truthfully. “She told me much about what was troubling her after she left the briefing, but I don’t believe even she was aware of this…purely subconscious realisation.”

Yoda watched Obi-Wan steadily.

     “She realised that the Jedi cannot help everyone. If Ahsoka and I had been there alone, and the organisation had not been…well, Ahsoka is aware that we would have been unsuccessful. Even with the aid of more Jedi.”

     “Ah,”the ancient Jedi master said. “Fear, you do, that cooperate she will not, when come the time does to arrest him.”

     “Yes, master. I think that when push comes to shove, there is a possibility she may allow him to escape.”

Yoda _hmmph_ ed and stopped, turning to Obi-Wan. “Serious, this is.”

     “Yes, master.”

     “A serious _accusation,_ this is,” Yoda said meaningfully.

Obi-Wan did a double-take. “Oh, no, Master,”Obi-Wan tried, but the old master raised a three clawed hand to silence him.

     “Faith, you must have in your Padawan,” Yoda instructed. He looked away from Obi-Wan, to a youngling that was being taught to swim on the other side of the pool. When she noticed his gaze, she squeaked, and the Padawan teaching her guffawed.

Yoda looked back at Obi-Wan and waited for an answer.

     “I do have faith, master. I had no doubts when we entered the Chancellor’s office, but now…she made her opinion on the whole topic quite clear.”

Yoda gave a non-committal grunt.

     “I’m sure when it comes down to it, Ahsoka will do her duty.”

     “Backtracking, you are, Obi-Wan,” Yoda pointed out.

Obi-Wan thought for a second. “I suppose so, master.”

     “Mean, this does, that faith you have in your Padawan. But faith she will do the _wrong thing_.”

Obi-Wan stayed silent.

What was he supposed to say? Ahsoka was a bright young student, but her passions did control her a little more than permitted. He had faith, he _did_. Ahsoka would make the right decision…but which one? The decision that would be best for the Republic? Or the decision that would save Starkiller?

Yoda sighed. “Your Padawan, bring on this mission. Work this out, she must for herself.”

Obi-Wan thanked Yoda for his time, and left the cool atmosphere of the Room of a Thousand Fountains, still as uneasy as when he entered.

 

***Notes: I FINISHED IT I THOUGHT I MIGHT AS WELL PUT IT UP I SHOULD BE STUDYING BUT I AM WEAK**


	4. Chapter 4

     “I don’t like Jakku,” Ahsoka decided as soon as they had stepped from their transport, swathed in cloths against the savage heat from the suns.

She waited for her master to reprove her, but he wrinkled his nose, grains of sand already collecting in his beard. “It isn’t the nicest planet, is it?” he agreed, hitching his tan poncho up to cover his neck. “I’ve been to similar planet once before, and I must say I’m not inclined to ever come back.”

     “No,” Ahsoka agreed, jumping down from the ramp into the sand. “Remember when we returned Jabba the Hutt’s son? Tatooine, I think. That wasn’t great.”

She wasn’t used to sand. She’d obviously been to beaches and oceans on various planets, but the Jedi temple very cool and pristine, and she’d never been somewhere with so _much_ of it, and so little of anything else. She didn’t mind it, but the vast amount that was stretched ahead of her, piled up in the path to some city certainly discouraged her from tromping across the desert to catch someone she didn’t particularly want to capture. The dry smell, like there was absolutely no water or liquid of any sort located anywhere on the planet, was definitely a deterrent as well. It smelled like a fire and glass and metal being forged. It was toxic and empty.

     “Why would anyone even _think_ this place was habitable?” she asked as Master Kenobi joined her on the sand, the ramp sliding up to shut the inside of the ship out of sight.

     “It _was,_ a very long time ago. It was attacked, and most of the water on the planet evaporated away from the heat. The close proximity of the sun didn’t help at all. This,” he said, gesturing around them as they began walking, “was all underwater.”

     “It’d be nice if it still was,” Ahsoka remarked.

At least it’d have been cooler.

The journey to the city was long and dull, and above all, _hot._ It was _sweltering,_ and Ahsoka, who seemed to have blotted out all memories of Tatooine, was panting under her headscarf, and thinking longingly of water. Even the most awful, humid planets she’d been to hadn’t been this bad.

     “This is awful,” she announced, leaning against broken, ancient, and abandoned speeder they came across.

     “A tragedy that you think so,” Obi-Wan said sarcastically. “I rather liked it.”

     “We have to go to Tatooine next, don’t we?”

Obi-Wan nodded assent, and Ahsoka let out a long and petulant groan. She had the strong feeling Obi-Wan agreed with her.

It was, at least, a relief that her clothes were well designed for such conditions. The tan boots that were wrapped protectively around her feet seemed to repel sand, and the tunic in terribly interesting shades of brown covered every inch of her skin from the sun. She had to admit, after a few hours in the sun, her typical attire would have left redder than a ruby bliel.

Her montrals had posed a trickier problem. Darra was human, and didn’t have any old clothes designed for a Togruta, especially not an adolescent Togruta. Darra had foraged through a large pile of somewhat-less-than-appealing scarves and handed Ahsoka the longest, plainest one.

     “Wrap it around your montrals,” the knight had told her cheerfully. “It should be long enough.”

So Ahsoka’s montrals were now protected, but the scarf, unfortunately, was not apparently as repellant of sand as the boots were.

By the time they reached the sandy, dodgy and downright unpleasant city of Deeba, or whatever it was called, Ahsoka was sure she’d collapse from the heat. Sweat was running down her montrals, grains of sand clinging to the inside of her headscarf. Obi-Wan seemed alright, if a little breathless, but he thankfully noticed her state and pulled him after her into a seedy cantina.

The air was worse inside, even if it _was_ cooler; the smell was _terrible,_ the stench of sweaty, unwashed life forms of all species sickening. There was music in the background, played with great gusto by a quintet of hairy lifeforms of an indeterminate species, which only added to the crowded, suffocating atmosphere.

     “The best and most reliable information can usually be gained from cantinas,” Obi-Wan pointed out, directing her around a snarling alien with a face like it had gone through an engine, and instead to the counter, where she planted herself heavily on one of the stools. “Most here can be persuaded to part with information for money, and are already on the run, so revealing a bit of information doesn’t hurt them anyway.” He sat beside her, and lowered the cloth concealing his face. “Two _asdkjhsd_ ,” he said to the barman, pushing a coin into his calloused hands while he pronounced some ridiculous word Ahsoka hadn’t a hope of remembering. “Keep the change.”

Those few sentences were spoken in an unsophisticated drawl that Ahsoka hadn’t known was capable of exiting her Master’s mouth. Obi-Wan Kenobi was always proper. He didn’t talk like a trampy smuggler. He just _didn’t._ He spoke as if he’d been educated at every one of the highest level, upper-class universities on Coruscant, or perhaps in the entire galaxy. Certainly not the Jedi Temple, amongst equally ‘uneducated’ peers and not-quite-appropriate Jedi Knights throwing around even _less_ appropriate jokes.

Ahsoka suddenly realized, now that they were in a scummy bar on the outskirts of the charted galaxy and her Master had tossed away his trademark decorum, that since she had become Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Padawan, her language, tone, and generally everything about her speech had completely changed. She was even more tactful than she once was, which wasn’t saying much about her behaviour before.

 _I sound more educated,_ she thought, pleased. That was rather satisfactory.

She watched a scungy-looking man flee from a woman who unfortunately bore great resemblance to Asajj Ventress, who had apparently belted him in the face as punishment for his unwanted attention and was ostentatiously flipping a thin-bladed knife from hand to hand, eyeing off next possible targets. A large Gamorrean, whose focus was on the woman, backed away uneasily after seeing what she had done.

Perhaps Ahsoka’s attitude hadn’t been so bad, beforehand. She’d never punched someone in the face so hard they ran away.

She’d knocked someone out though.

Ahsoka considered commenting on Master Kenobi’s change of accent, but shrugged and decided against it. No point in bringing it up, he knew what he was doing, and he wouldn’t appreciate it if his act was given away. The owner of the cantina roughly pushed two drinks their way, and she had to steady them hastily before they could tip over on the counter from some muck sticking to the bottom of the filthy glasses.

     “So, why- _asdajkh_?” she asked conversationally in an attempted imitation of his accent, wincing a little at how false it sounded, even with only those two simple words. She handed one of the drinks to her master, who immediately placed it back on the bench and continued to survey the cantina for possible informants.

     “ _Askljsdahghj_ ,” Master Kenobi corrected distractedly, slipping back to into his normal voice when he saw no one was paying attention to them. Ahsoka frowned. It sounded like a completely different word that time round. “Cheap and non-alcoholic. I cannot afford to be intoxicated on this mission, and you are far too young anyway.”

     “Oh. Okay.” Ahsoka followed his gaze.

The cantina was a mish-mash of varying species, brawls that rivalled the republic senators’, and an odd, unpleasant smell; presumably a combination between bile and some other bodily substance. There was going to be someone in the saloon who knew about their target; there had to be.

Maybe that snarling Ranat picking a fight on the other side of the cantina? Protruding teeth, pointed and yellowing, rodent-like body and small, beady eyes glaring out from two eye socket caves. Of course, the object of its aggressions was a much larger, much smarter feline species giving it a cold look with slit-pupilled eyes, sharp claws grating on the sides of a table. When did any members of the rat-like species ever do anything but challenge those much larger?

Idiot. Then again, perhaps not a good source of information. Ranats were known for being excessively violent and only semi-sentient, preferring to live in burrows on their home planet, and not taking kindly to visitors. It was a surprise to see one on Jakku, even if it was taking part in typical Ranat activities; attacking other life-forms it saw as a threat, or just remotely annoying. Semi-sentient life-forms, if migrating, were usually quarantined for such a long time it was hardly worth going anywhere.

     “Mas- Obi-Wan,” she corrected herself, not wishing to draw attention to them, “it’s possible we won’t find anyone. There’s a lot of beings here, and this is just one cantina in one city.”

Master Kenobi didn’t look at her, still examining the cantina’s occupants with a kind of intensity that meant he really, probably shouldn’t be distracted. “I can feel that something is going to happen here. Not necessarily in this bar, but nearby.”

He didn’t offer her any other information, so Ahsoka shifted her gaze, not bothering to be surprised by his claim. Her power in the Force was only slight in comparison to Obi-Wan’s, it would take many more years of training to reach Obi-Wan’s level, if at all.

Her eyes trailed across the bar, picking out suspicious figures, before she forgot them and moved on to the next person. Drunk Mandalorian woman flirting with a Twi’lek. A Dug sulking into a steaming green drink; Ahsoka vaguely recognised him from a… a podracing poster? Maybe?

 _The problem is,_ she though as she continued search for interesting characters, _that everyone looks like they have no purpose._ And the Force itself was _no_ help. When she stretched out her senses, all she could detect was confusion, anger, manipulation. Nothing was _careful._ Nothing was _planned._

Ahsoka sighed huffily through her nose, and spun on her stool childishly to watch the cantina door. Perhaps if she-

A human man, shabbily dressed, in his early twenties or so, walked inside and alarms blared inside Ahsoka’s head like an alarm-chrono.

He was nothing to look at, completely unremarkable, his clothes making him appear even more invisible than he already seemed to be. Messy hair, scruff, short, dark skin; everything that would make someone disappear into a crowd of desert-dwellers.

But that was hardly what drew her attention to him. Her senses still stretched out, when tendrils of the Force touched the man, what immediately sizzled into Ahsoka’s brain with blinding clarity was that he _had a purpose._

     “What about him?” Ahsoka asked quietly, putting down her drink as she pointed surreptitiously at the new customer. She was impressed she kept her voice down; inside she was bubbling in excitement.

Obi-Wan followed her finger, and his eyes narrowed infinitesimally at the dark-haired man strode further in, dressed in typical moisture-farmer garb. He assumed a look of concentration Ahsoka knew meant he was probing with the Force, and then he sat back, satisfied.

     “Just like him,” Obi-Wan replied to his Padawan. He gave a quick glance around the bar, noting that each stool had been filled by the rear end of some lifeform.

He sent a quick suggestion to the bulky figure beside him to leave, and was gratified when they immediately up and left, sloshing  drink all over their front as they did so.

The moisture farmer made a beeline for the free seat, and plonked himself down the second he reached it. “Bantha milk,” he requested, somehow sounding confident yet totally unremarkable. Half the barkeeper’s monobrow raised, before he apparently decided he had heard weirder things in a cantina, and shuffled off to get the drink.

Ahsoka snorted into her sahj- her asdlhj- her _drink_ by accident, and Obi-Wan sent her an irritated look before clearing her airways with a slight wave of his hand.

The moisture farmer noticed. Not the hand wave, but the blatant laughter at his drink order. “Is there something funny?” he asked irritably.

Ahsoka hiccoughed, a grin spreading itself across her features. Obi-Wan prayed she would remember her place and not antagonize him. “It’s just I wouldn’t expect someone to come to a cantina and buy _milk,_ of all things. Wouldn’t you just drink it at home.”

The farmer, surprisingly enough, shrugged. “Well, why not? The drinks are usually cooler in here, I’ve been working hard, and I want to keep a clear head.” He raised an eyebrow at the drinks in front of them. “Ahjdia makes my head go foggy.”

     “It’s non-alcoholic,” Ahsoka replied. Then she asked quietly, “how do you pronounce it?”

     “Aasdjhk,” Obi-Wan said, and the farmer snorted.

     “ _Ahhzh-dyee-ah_ ,” he said, drawing the word out. “You talk like a coreworlder. Don’t add random letters to the end of the word.”

     “We’re-”

     “Not coreworlders, sure you aren’t,” the farmer said. “You sound like… I don’t even know. Pretentious?”

     “ _She’s_ not a coreworlder,” Obi-Wan said. “I was. Am. I don’t know. I’m Ben. This is Ahsoka.” He added the introduction almost as an afterthought.

The farmer’s bushy eyebrows rose up. “Banai. How did you end up here? If you don’t mind me asking.”

The barkeeper shuffled over and deposited the cup of bantha milk beside Banai.

     “I don’t particularly enjoy life in the republic,” Obi-Wan lied. “It’s hard to get anywhere. I came to find that slave thief, for the bounty.”

     “Ah.” Banai’s face became carefully guarded, and he took a careful sip of his bantha milk. “And why did you bring your young friend?”

Obi-Wan pretended not to notice the his discomfort. “She was one of the slaves that got away from Zygerria,” Obi-Wan said carelessly. “I found her, and she agreed to help me find him.”

Ahsoka faked a scowl, catching on to Obi-Wan’s plan. “That’s not true, he said if I didn’t-”

Obi-Wan’s next movement was so swift he thought, for perhaps a second, that he had cracked a bone in his neck. His head rotated towards her in a blink, and he saw her shrivel backwards a little in alarm. Her eyes widened automatically, before she seemed to realise that this was part of the plan, and that crack did not seem to indicate he was going to die.

     “I’m sorry, were you going to say something?” he asked quietly, dangerously.

Ahsoka shook her head furiously, the end of her headscarf untucking and falling to her waist. “No,” she said quickly, “I was just-”

     “Good,” Obi-Wan said.

She stayed silent.

Banai looked from Obi-Wan to Ahsoka, shocked. Something had hardened in his expression, and Ahsoka almost expected him to say something. But he just downed the rest of his milk and said, awkwardly:

     “Well… nice to meet you, I guess.”

     “Mmhm,” Obi-Wan hummed absently rather than give an actual reply.

Ahsoka tried her best to give Banai a quavery, scared smile, fully aware of her pitiable acting skills.

It seemed to work, and he looked alarmed. “I might see you around,” he said.

It didn’t sound like a suggestion. It was a promise. And he was looking directly at Ahsoka when he said it.

     “Maybe,” Obi-Wan said.

Banai nodded, still staring at Ahsoka. Then he strode out, and Obi-Wan promptly dropped the act and smiled at her.

     “He’s definitely part of the organisation. That didn’t take very long, did it?”

     “No,” Ahsoka agreed. “We’ve barely been here for, like, five minutes?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “I won’t be surprised if they come for you in the next few days. Be prepared. Keep your comm on you at all times.”

     “Yes, master,” Ahsoka said dutifully, before she froze and realised she had used the Jedi term.

A bottle smashed somewhere in the background, and a Besalisk dived to the floor with a Gamorrean tucked under one arm. There was screaming. The barkeeper roared, and rolled his shirt-sleeves up to his elbows, menacingly hopping the bar and storming over to the brawl.

     “No one noticed,” Obi-Wan decided, amused. “I wouldn’t worry.”

     “I’m not worried about that,” Ahsoka lied. “I’m worried about your neck, though. That’s- what, the sixth time?” A punch was landed, and an _ooohhh_ erupted from the bystanders. The besalisk swung wildly, and Obi-Wan was vividly reminded of the senate.

     “Fifth, actually.”

     “No,” Ahsoka disagreed thoughtfully. “Sixth. I’m sure of it.”

     “May I remind you that what you seem to be counting was _only_ because I was quite literally dropped off a cliff?”

     “It still counts,” Ahsoka said happily.

     “That business on Mandalore doesn’t count.”

     “Yeah, it d-”

Obi-Wan, remembering Banai had said ahjdia still affected brain processes, took a long sip of his drink.

 

***

 

Unfortunately for Dooku, the last day he had spent on Jakku had been a fruitless search, revealing nothing but critics and gutless sympathiser, but on the second day his luck turned around.

The instant a young, dark man stepped out into the street from a seedy cantina, Dooku was sure of two things.

The first was that by accosting him, Dooku would be far closer to capturing the miserable little leader of the gang of thieves and former slaves. There was something about him, anger at some injustice that was seeping from his pores. Sickening. An idealistic child, determined to turn the galaxy into something different, a galaxy _he_ designated just. The boy, completely unaware of Dooku’s gaze, reached up and scratched his nose, his sleeve slipping away and revealing a long puckered scar running down his forearm. A slave mark, no doubt. From the removal of a transmitter. This boy was, without a doubt, a little foolish brat who would unwittingly bring him to the leader.

The second thing Dooku was the far less welcome realisation that this boy had just been fraternising with a certain Jedi.

Dooku would recognise Kenobi’s presence anywhere, to the extent where he could feel it on other people like a slimy coating of oil. hard to miss and harder to remove. Brushing past Kenobi in the street would undoubtedly leave a faint trace of the Jedi on him, but the Force surrounding the boy was thick, like he’d been having a conversation with Kenobi.

Dooku had only met Kenobi a few times, and one of their first meetings had ended with Kenobi on the ground, and lightsaber nearly passing through his chest in a sizzle to the ground. It had been only the lucky presence of a recently knighted Jedi, Secura, that he had survived. And even then, Dooku had put a blade through Secura’s knee, and then his former master Yoda’s arrival spared the two knights.

He had, however, though the course of the Clone Wars and before the Nabooan blockade, heard much about Kenobi. Qui-Gon Jinn had frequently mentioned the boy to Dooku in the few times they met prior his death, building up an image of a powerful, wise young apprentice.

What Kenobi actually was was a proud, arrogant and pretentious Jedi, full of confidence that there was only one way to use the Force, and that _his_ way was correct.

What a fool.

The boy, still unaware, disappeared past a throng of loudly chattering Rodian girls. But Dooku could track him as if the boy was leaving behind him a trail of string.

So the Jedi were here for the leader, but Dooku would not allow that. He was going to _win._

 

**_*_ Notes-  _light screaming_ two exams to go, man, two more then I'm  _free_**


	5. Chapter 5

The young man whom Dooku was trailing behind remained, most irritatingly, completely unaware of the Sith’s presence for a full hour. This wasn’t particularly unremarkable in itself, as Dooku frequently harnessed the Force and formed a shield to conceal himself to the point where he was practically invisible to all, but there was an itch of annoyance under the Sith’s skin as the boy took his _damn_ time.  In fact, had Dooku not known better, he could have sworn the boy was purposely leading him on a wild caranak chase about the city, taking infinite pleasure in the Count’s slowly decaying patience. But fortunately for the boy, who would most certainly be punished for it if that were the case, he was blissfully unaware of his hawk-eyed follower.

If the boy were a Jedi, such an explanation for his slow meandering about the streets would likely be an accurate explanation. A poor Jedi, taking satisfaction from the displeasure of another being, but Dooku found it took no stretch of the imagination to picture Kenobi- or the bratty little Togruta who followed him like a semi-sulky, semi-adoring pittin, for that matter- doing so. Jedi were generally polite almost to fault when speaking to civilians, politicians, or whenever they just wanted something to be done.  But come to a powerful Force-user such as Dooku on a battlefield, their manners dropped away like a trapdoor had sprung up beneath them. Some Jedi were subtler than others, such as Kenobi, who would land carefully aimed jabs at the more sensitive aspects of his opponent. Younger, dimmer, blustering Jedi would clumsily make swings of ‘you look old’ at Dooku. The latter had occurred at the last military base captured from the Republic, manned by a master and her Padawan. After the master had been dealt with, the Padawan had stammered out some insult designed to provoke Dooku. He merely pushed his blade through their chest, and suggested that his age didn’t really have much to do with his abilities. It was regrettable that they had to die, but in a war such enemies must be disposed of.  The contrast between the master’s sly prods and the Padawan’s mis-swung, punchy insults was more obvious than General Grievous compared to that blithering Gungan representative.

But alas, this boy absently strutting the streets was not aware than anything was out of place. He stopped to strike up a conversation with a shrivelled Emente woman, of whom four of her six eyes were clouded over in a milky haze. Dooku stopped his slow pursuit, silently cursing the boy in his head, and swept over to the side of the street to watch them, but from the cooler shadows.

The boy blathered something about knowing a woman back home who sold fruit as he fossicked through the heaped wyykmelons, checking for quality. He mentioned some confusion over something inane, the availability of native Tatooinian fruit on Jakku, and the woman answered him with some banal reply over growing conditions that Dooku found drearier than ever. The boy somehow expressed great interest in this tedious little fact as he forked over a handful of credits and hoisted a huge sack of carefully selected melons and other various foods he had accumulated over the last hour. He gave the woman a polite incline of the head in farewell, who smiled blindly in reply, and continued his way down the street, his load ten kilograms heavier than before.

Dooku’s eyes narrowed, and he focused on the torn flap of burlap at the top of the sack.

Such an awful lot of food for one man… although, if he were, say, providing for a large party, such as an indeterminate amount of freed slaves, the amount would seem less unreasonable. People didn’t have large families on Jakku; those older than forty standard years usually died rather quickly, shrivelling up in the sunlight. And the boy had mentioned he was not from the planet, and said something about Tatooine.

Dooku smiled lightly. Coincidences did not exist in the Force. He continued his shadowing of the boy, access to his path unhindered as people automatically moved for him, wary of a sort of danger about him.

The boy stopped multiple times, perhaps three, at other stalls, his food supply increasing dramatically with every visit. It felt like an age before he ducked into a side alley. Dooku sped up and waited at the corner. He didn’t bother trying to appear casual. He just glowered dangerously at anyone who looked at him, and very soon everyone was purposefully avoiding his gaze. When he was sure that no one was watching him, he listened.

     “ _Kitster?_ ” the boy’s comm crackled from around the corner. “ _You got everything?_ ”

     “Mmhmm,” the boy, Kitster, replied cheerfully. “Loads of fruit and vegetables, and I even got some meat for cheap. I don’t know if it’s off though.”

The voice on the other end of the comm snorted. “ _It doesn’t really matter; cook it enough and the germs die. And hey, we’ve all had worse, right?”_

     “True,” Kitster agreed. “Our immune systems are _epic._ ” He laughed, then his tone turned more serious. “So, how are the last group faring?”

     “ _They’re alright. They still are kinda under the impression we own them or something. It’ll be good for them when we smuggle ‘em to Ryloth or somewhere nicer. Get them in the right headset._ ”

     “Hey, we got used to it. They’ll be fine.”

That was a confirmation. Dooku waited for the pair to say their goodbyes, and the instant he was sure the comm had been switched off, he twisted around the corner.

The stupid boy had picked a dead end.

Kitster, or whatever his name was, didn’t look alarmed so much as curious. “Oh,” he said, frowning interestedly. “Can I help you?”

     “I think you already have,” Dooku told him, and the comm exploded into a shower of plastic and glass and metal.

The boy jumped backwards, flinching, his hand bloody from multitudes of tiny cuts decorating his plam. “What the _fark?_ ” he demanded, clutching his hand to his chest. A circle of scarlet began spreading out from where his skin was tightly pressed to his shirt. “That wasn’t- How did-”

     “It wasn’t natural, I am aware,” Dooku told him pleasantly. He took a few steps forward, and the boy inched backwards. Dooku continued, looming over Kitster, who was trying to lean back further; a difficult feat, considering his back was pressed firmly against a sandstone wall.  “Kitster, was it? Well, I do thank you for the help you provided me with. Perhaps you can give me more.”

     “Help?” Kitster’s dark eyebrows jumped in bewilderment. “Why? Why the kriff would you need help when you can just skip along and blow someone up?” His eyes had the slightest glint of fear in them when the comm first exploded in his palm, but now he just had the nauseating look of insolence and curiosity around him.

     “Blowing people up is not nearly so helpful as asking for aid,” Dooku informed him coldly. “So I wish for you to answer this, and then you may be on your way. Where are the Jedi headed?”

Kitster looked even more bewildered. “Jedi? _Here?_ Why would Jedi be on this giant mound of steaming manure?” He gestured about him, and Dooku, personally, had to agree. “Sorry, I think you’re a bit cracked.”

     “I am not,” Dooku said, “as you so impertinently put it, cracked, I assure you. Where are they going?”

There was a chance that Kitster had not recognised Kenobi or his apprentice as Jedi, and had possibly let slip about his organisation. Otherwise… it would be useful to know where the Jedi were headed, even if they were on a misguided journey. There was no doubt they were here for the same reason, and Dooku had every intention of winning. Sending a distraction after them would delay them, and possibly give him enough time to find the leader and bring him before Jabba, at least before the Jedi realised he had beaten them.

Instead of giving a reasonable response, the boy grinned strangely. “I told you! I. Don’t know. What you’re talking about!”

Dooku resisted the urge to throttle the boy and watch the life drain out of his swollen blue face with desperate eyes, but that would hardly aid his mission. He decided to try a different tact. He had no doubt Kitster knew _something_ about Kenobi, but was just unaware. Like he thought earlier, it was possible he didn’t recognise Kenobi, but he would take no chances. Dooku decided to try a different tact. It usually worked well on pirates, especially that horrid Ohnaka or whatever his name had been. A former slave would know the value of money.

     “You will be greatly rewarded if you tell me,” Dooku offered softly. “More wealth than you’ve ever seen. It will cover any doubts you have about parting with such information.”

Kitster snorted loudly, and Dooku knew that he would get nothing from him. “Oh boy. Wealth.” He pulled up a mockingly thoughtful expression. “Well…” he said, chewing his lip and dragging the word out for longer than humanely possible. “Jedi. Yes, I did see a Jedi. He looked…” the boy paused again, and looked very much like he was trying not to laugh. The stupid child had already forgotten Dooku’s power. “Well sure, he had a lightsaber on his belt. Can’t say much else. Giant guy, ridiculously tall, with that really stupid hairstyle like _fwoof_ …” Kitster imitated long flowing locks with his hands.

The description reminded Dooku, with a slight twinge in his chest, of Qui-Gon Jinn. But his former apprentice had been dead for over ten years. This boy was merely making up an amusing description. He decided to humour him anyway.

     “And where was this Jedi going?”

     “Trying to get off Tatooine, last I saw him,” Kitster replied chattily.

Dooku’s eyes narrowed.

     “Should I mention that this was about ten years ago, or- _chjkk_.”

     “ _What_ ,” Dooku hissed, outspread hand tightening into a fist for the second time in two days, “do you know of Qui-Gon Jinn?”

Although Dooku knew hardly anything of Qui-Gon’s Tatooine incident, he did know the time frame, and the boy’s vague description fitted Qui-Gon perfectly. The Jedi he referred to must have been Dooku’s own, unruly former apprentice. What would a Tatooinian slave brat know of Jedi? Especially Qui-Gon?

The boy struggled to speak, his face turning pink. “ _I can’t_ -“ he wheezed, “ _talk if- you’re- strangling me.”_

Dooku examined him coolly. Kitster clawed at his throat. He released him, and the former slave staggered against the wall he was trapped against.

     “Thanks,” the boy said sourly, rubbing at his throat. “Look, he came to Tatooine. Took advantage of my friends’ kindness, and was just a _huge_ barve. Never saw him again after he left. He was the _only_ Jedi I’ve ever met… save you, I guess,” he added with a resentful look. “And the only one I ever _wanted_ to meet. But Jinn was a jumped-up Corellian dirt-farmer.”

Dooku understood at least some of the colloquial phrases the boy used, which was he did not question the boy’s claim Jinn was Corellian. But it was not that which concerned him. The claim that Qui-Gon had taken advantage of another being’s kindness and then abandoned them was quite startling. Qui-Gon had had the softest, most un-Jedi-like heart Dooku had ever known; as a Padawan he had often frittered time away on mission by looking moon-eyed at some poor lost soul, preventing any decent efficiency. Dooku did not have enough fingers or toes to count the incidents Qui-Gon disobeyed direct orders to rescue some hopeless person. A reason, Dooku was sure, Qui-Gon had never attained a position on the Jedi council. He was far too passionate, which led to frequent rule breaking. And there was also the incident with Qui-Gon’s friend, Tahl or whatever her name was…

Regardless, there was more to the story than the boy let on.

     “Tell me more of your encounter with Qui-Gon Jinn,” Dooku demanded. The boy raised an eyebrow and folded his arms defiantly, the sack of wyykmelons bumping against his hip, all but forgotten.

     “No,” the boy said, chin up. It seemed he had also forgotten that barely a minute ago, Dooku had had him gasping in a Force choke.

    “And why ever not?”

     “You tried to strangle me about a minute ago.”

Ah. So the boy had not forgotten.

     “Very well,” Dooku replied, deciding that a peasant boy could hardly tell him more about his own apprentice that he did not know already. “Why have you purchased so much food?”

The boy blinked.

Dooku had to admit, if he’d been asked such a question in similar circumstances, he would have been equally perplexed. But the boy’s confusion was considerably amusing; his opinion of the absurdity of the question clearly etched on his face.

     “Because eating is a thing people have to do?” Kitster said it like it was a question, screwing up his face as though sure the answer would be wrong.

     “Is that so?”

     “I’m fairly sure. 74% sure.”

     “Strange. I was under the impression it was because you were providing food for a large group of people.”

The boy blinked again, and Dooku’s good mood dissipated. He fought the urge to shake the boy until the dim expression peeled away. But it was unlikely to do so; he had the impression Kitster was a very intelligent person who put on acts for a) his own amusement, or b) privacy and security reasons. Acts Dooku saw right through.

     “I have a mother.”

     “As people generally do.”

     “ _No,_ ” the boy snorted. “She cooks. With food. Like food in this sack.” He gave it a shake, with effort.

Dooku elegantly arched an eyebrow. “Thirty melons? With extravagant amounts of other goods? A little excessive, but for a large group of former slaves, it would be reasonable.”

Ah, and there it was again. The hint of fear that the boy had felt obliged to show when his air was slowly being squeezed from him. Reappearing just for Dooku’s convenience.

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

     “I think you do,” Dooku rebutted silkily. “I’m going to give you a choice.”

     “No way,” the boy said instantly.

     “It’s considered polite to wait for a proposal before responding. Now, you can tell me who is your leader, and I will take him peacefully. Or, you can disagree, and I will kill you here, find your little gang, kill them too, and take your leader anyway. How does that sound?”

     “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The boy insisted unconvincingly. “Are you talking about that slave group? I don’t know anything about them!”

     “Strange,” Dooku said coldly. “They originated from Tatooine, they are now on Jakku, and I’ve just found a person who fits that description.”

     “What?”

Dooku smiled thinly. Although it wasn’t truly a smile. It had been a very long time since he had smiled properly. “You. A Tatooinian boy, a former slave if that scar on your arm does not deceive me, who happens to be on the same planet as group of slave-freeing criminals. It seems I have found the right person.”

Kitster’s eyes widened, and he tried desperately to recover. “Yeah, I have a scar on my arm. Who cares? I got when I was messing around on a swoop a few years back. Lots of people have scars from accidents and stuff.”

Dooku reached out and firmly wrapped his fingers around the boy’s wrist, pulling his sleeve up with the other. “Get off!” The boy demanded, but Dooku’s grip was like a vice.

The scar went from the wrist to the elbow, a long, straight cut that had apparently sliced quite deep. The puckered skin showed signs of poor healing. The boy wrenched his arm free and pulled his sleeve down quickly.

     “Many do suffer accidents,” he agreed, “but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a _purposeful_ looking injury from a swoop-bike accident. So straight. A simple crash would not have inflicted this upon you.”

     “It was a crash,” Kitster insisted, trying to puff himself up to look more intimidating. “Are you calling me a liar?”

     “Yes. And unfortunately, my patience just expired. Make your decision.”

     “It’s a choice I refuse to make,” Kitster said stubbornly, giving up on his charade. “I’ll never give them up.”

     “I have methods of finding them once you are dead,” Dooku informed him. Kitster shook his head.

     “I don’t think so. You broke my comm. That was my only contact. I don’t know where they are. They come to _me,_ not me to the. Security.” He smirked.

It disappeared quickly, and he flinched as Dooku took hold of his throat through the Force, and scrabbled for breath.

The colour of his face changed like the little alien at the docking bay, but at least this boy had the civility to suffocate quietly. No tears, no mucus dripping down his face, no desperation. The boy would have a tidy death, and then Dooku would find his friends he tried so hard to protect.

Although the boy had tried to hinder Dooku’s path, Dooku admired the boy’s courage and loyalty. Such traits were worthy of- not the Jedi, who were but cowards, and not the Sith, of which loyalty was frowned upon, but they were admirable traits nonetheless.

The boy’s dark eyes looked focussed, but not on Dooku, as if there was some ghostly figure behind him that only the boy could see.

The Force rose up behind Dooku, too slowly, and he realised there was one reason the boy had not panicked. He was _waiting._

 

***Next chapter will be a considerable while away.**


	6. Chapter 6

It had been barely an hour since Banai had awkwardly shuffled away, and Ahsoka’s heart was pumping a bit faster that it was strictly supposed to; a strange quiver in her knees that she was absolutely sure had everything to do with the fact that she would likely be abducted within the next day.

     “Nerves,” Obi-Wan said dismissively when he noticed her shaking. “Remember the Force. All that is meant to happen will happen.”

It took Ahsoka physical effort to force her eye markings to remain in a neutral position. She nodded stiffly, and said, “Yes, master.” Inside she was a mess of confusion and annoyance at the quote. What was it even meant to _mean?_

_All that is meant to happen will happen._

Oh golly gee, that logic wasn’t flawed. So, if a slave died from abuse, or a parent in childbirth, or a child contracted an incurable disease, these were all _supposed_ to happen? And, by extension, couldn’t be interfered with? Right?

Ahsoka seethed silently, surprised at the intensity of her feelings. _It’s reasonable,_ she told herself. To be idle, or to do something bad for the sake of goodness or what was _defined_ as such was just as bad as doing something terrible for the sake of entertainment, personal gain, or general evil. It was petty to hide behind the excuse that the Force intended it to happen. If people died every day for the grand plan of the universe, then it obviously wasn’t a very good plan, was it? And certainly not worth those lives.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face very clearly, because Obi-Wan, leaning casually against a stall to negotiate prices with the owner, frowned at her quizzically while the keeper’s back was turned. When two small fruits were deposited in his hand, and they edged away from the stall, he murmured, “Ahsoka, what is it? Do you sense something.”

     “Nothing,” Ahsoka told him, feeling a little regretful. Obi-Wan tried his best to help, but he was- well, they were just so _different._ Obi-Wan sat contentedly in the confines of the Temple laws, but Ahsoka found them crushing; her emotions and moral compass pulling her from the Jedi way and pushing her somewhere else.

Obi-Wan raised a questioning eyebrow, a very familiar gesture, and she relented. “I don’t agree with this infiltration thing,” she told him simply, accepting one of the fruits he held out.

Obi-Wan looked uncomfortable. “Ah. Your- disagreements with the mission. I see.”

Ahsoka couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated, but she supposed her master was trying hard. _Perhaps,_ she thought, _this is what al Padawan relationships are like._ Disagreements were all part of such relationships, or were supposed to be at least. And maybe the difficulty that they experienced in their relationship was based from both of them. Ahsoka had always been a hard student to manage, even just in the crèches at the temple. And Obi-Wan… he had never taught a Padawan before, had he? And his connection with his master had hardly finished nicely, being snapped off like a broken branch, abruptly and painfully and long before the time was right.

Obi-Wan still wasn’t right.

     “Yes,” she replied. It was a reasonable simplification of her thought process.

Obi-Wan squirmed, and coughed awkwardly. “Do you-“ he began. “Do you wish to talk about this?”

Ahsoka grimaced. “Maybe? I don’t really want to argue about it.”

    “I won’t argue,” Obi-Wan promised, looking relieved his offer had been partly accepted. “Unfortunately it’s a little late to alter the plan now, but I’m willing to listen to your worries about it.”

Ahsoka felt a pang of fondness for her master. How many times had he talked to her about this mission? Four? Five times? And he didn’t tire or grow snappy with her for it.

     “It’s dishonest,” Ahsoka said. “Capturing him is bad enough. But gaining their trust and then betraying them… it’s low. Something like what a Sith would do.”

     “War is not pleasant,” Obi-Wans told her.  Then he smiled a little. “You’re really quite relentless when it comes to this topic, aren’t you?”

Despite everything, Ahsoka had to smile a bit. “Yes, master.” She opened her mouth again- to say something more about her distaste with espionage, but she was interrupted.

A loud and angry shout broke the conversation, and they automatically turned to where it seemed to be emanating from; another eight or so sidestreets down. Ahsoka felt a twinge in her belly, which turned into an uncomfortable fizzing. Her ears popped, and she felt ill, as though she was being shaken violently. She knew distantly that it must have been to do with the fight, but why? It was still a distance away.

But why in the galaxy would she feel sick? The last time she’d felt like this was a few hours after she’d been electrocouted…

She glanced up at Obi-Wan, who was staring intensely down towards where the fight was, the sun glancing into his eyes, but he seemed to scarcely notice.

     “That was _Force lightning,_ ” he said disbelievingly.

 

***

 

Dooku felt a crackle in the Force as the person behind him prepared to attack. A tingle went up his spine like a miniature electric shock, and the figure charged.

Kitster dropped like a stone to the sand, not from asphyxiation, but from lunging at the sack by his feet. Dooku considered, for a split second, waiting for whatever weapon the boy was sure to pull out, before he decided that this new person was far more of a threat to him.

A tall figure barrelled into his side mindlessly, with neither aim nor planning that Dooku could detect from the rage encircling this new boy’s mind. Dooku sent a shove in the Force, and the boy stumbled backwards, snarling from under a flap of curly, sun-bleached hair.

This new boy, now wary, paced like an animal, eyes narrowed into sky-blue slits, as he seethed and decided how best to attack Dooku. The Count felt probing fingers in the Force stretch out towards him, and he cut off their tracks with a quick swipe from his strength in the Force.

Well, that was certainly interesting.  This boy was strong. And not just physically, which he had disguised well with his thin, lanky form. There was a sea beneath the clouds hiding the boy’s mind, and that bubbling sea was boiling with power and fury. Dooku could taste the Force around the boy, tangy and sharp and burning, and _powerful._

It was more the burning rage like lava that interested Dooku. It wasn’t completely unusual to meet Force-sensitives who had been forgotten by the Republic.

But the _anger…_

Powerful, yes, but disciplined? No.

The mind of a child, however intelligent, would always pale in comparison to an average adult, who had received teachings, and had discipline and structure to their thinking. The youngling may have outshone the adult if they were of the same age and generation, but the fact remained that training was _necessary._

This boy was pure power, with no coordination to it. Dooku would win this fight with ease. The aggressiveness of the boy would be his own undoing.

But a powerful opponent, even untrained, would lead to an entertaining duel regardless. Dooku quite enjoyed fighting Jedi, even though he still experienced some reluctance to kill them. This boy would make do.

The blonde boy made a lunge, as Kitster rose with a vibroblade in his fist.

Dooku, fully prepared for the attack, merely sidestepped from the Force-sensitive boy, whose shoulder collided with the sandstone with a _crack._

For a brief second, Dooku wondered if the boy had been injured. But no, a clump of sandstone crumbled away from the wall, and boy resumed his offensive stance. Dooku felt Kitster prepare to slash at him with the vibroblade.

     “I’m afraid it’s harder than that to get the better of me,” Dooku remarked, catching Kitster’s wrist in an iron grip, and squeezing till the boy yelled. The taller one’s eyes burned in absolute fury, and Kitster wrenched his arm away, pulling his elbows into his chest like he was preparing to throw a punch.

One Force-sensitive, untrained boy, and one very ordinary, short boy. A fight so hilariously easy to win, it was a joke to think it was even occurring.

Dooku flung the Force in a wave at the blonde one, who staggered backwards under its rolls of energy, blocking the last of it poorly. More poorly than a Temple youngling, but an attempt nonetheless. Impressive that an untrained boy of his age should be able to access the Force like that. There was blood leaking down his face from his nose, which he wiped away, glaring dangerously. Dooku smiled at him chillingly.

     “You’re a Force-sensitive,” he remarked. “But you have _dismal_ technique.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed with rage. An untrained, overly sensitive boy. Well. In another universe, perhaps, _excellent_ dark-side material.

     “Yeah, I don’t know what that means, but I will _end_ you, Jedi, if you touch my friends,” the boy warned, his teeth stained red from his bloody nose.

Dooku’s eyebrow arched, and he felt mildly gratified that the boy just looked more furious than ever. “That would be interesting to see,” Dooku said. “I am not a Jedi. Those detached servants would try save you if they saw you fighting _me_.”

The boy gave no reply, but a glare.

     “Friends, did you say?” Dooku continued, feeling a prickle in the Force, and noticing absently that young Kitster had mysteriously vanished behind him. “Plural, I assume.”

He flicked his hand, and the threat behind him yelped loudly, and a blaster flew firmly into his hand. He turned and stepped back to see all three of the underwhelming gang at once. The dark boy, the blonde boy, and a green Twi’lek girl nursing what appeared to be a broken finger from her abrupt disarming. Kitster’s vibroblade was back in his fist; the Twi’lek warily assumed a defensive stance echoing that of many bounty hunters and assassins Dooku had come across over the years. Possibly trained as an assassin. Or just clever enough to learn self-defense.

And then there was the blonde boy, looking as though he was sure he could win by only sheer strength of anger and the Force. Dooku tilted his head very slightly. Such _emotion._ Although the boy hardly put it to good use, it roiled about him like a Force-filled storm. He was a tornado of his own aggressiveness, defensiveness, loyalty and fear.

So corruptible…

 _The Rule of Two cannot be broken,_ Sidious’ voice chastised him in his mind.

And yet how oddly fragile such rules were.

     “He’s _old,_ ” the Twi’lek girl stated obviously, a furrow on her brow. “How are we getting beaten by an old person?”

He was reminded instantly and irritably of the Padawan from that last base. It seems he would never escape derision for his age. It was satisfactory that they would soon be not surprised, but _terrified_ at his power.

     “We’re not beaten yet,” the blonde growled. “Jedi _chisszk._ ”

     “I am not Jedi,” Dooku said, his hand edging towards his lightsaber. “You would do well to wish for their involvement after I deliver you to the Hutts, boy.” He looked at the blonde boy dead in the eye. “There is a considerable bounty on your head.”

     “I _know_ that,” the boy replied stupidly.

And there was the confirmation Dooku was looking for. This stupid boy had just _confirmed_ that it was he the Hutts were searching for. How in the galaxy had he managed to evade bounty hunters, who were neither stupid nor slow? A little fool, a little prideful fool, that was all he was.

Loyal and passionate.

Kitster squeaked again, not in fear, but in something that edged more towards irritation on the scale of terror as his throat closed over again. He made a slash with the vibroblade, but Dooku once again snatched his wrist and twisted until the blade fell into the sand.

The other boy’s eyes flashed, the girl hissed, and they both dived at him.

Lightning coursed from Dooku’s fingers and caught them both in the chests, sending them flying backwards until they crashed and fell to the ground, screaming in pain. The boy climbed to his feet dizzily and made another lunge for Dooku, but was pushed back and collapsed back against the girl, and they fell in a heap of limbs, fear, and fury. Dooku sent another maelstrom of lightning at them, just for good measure, but the boy lifted a shaky hand and absorbed the lightning for himself.

Dooku felt his eyes widen momentarily, and Kitster took advantage of the lapsing concentration by throwing his fist towards Dooku’s belly. He shortly joined his friends in the dazed pile on the sand.

The blonde boy jumped upright after he extricated himself, the girl was twitching a little from the shock, but both were looking like the attack had not, in any means, slowed them down. There was sand stuck to the blood on the boy’s face from when his head had hit the ground, and bruising beginning to form underneath, purple spreading out rapidly across his eye and forehead. He was breathing fast, he was favouring his right leg, but he had not been stopped.

 _Very powerful,_ Dooku thought, allowing a furrow to form between his eyebrows. Younger Jedi knights and Padawans would have easily succumbed to Force lightning, and would still be twitching in a haze of pain, or have fallen into a pit of unconsciousness. And instead-

Suddenly there was sand in his eyes; not thrown at him but _fixated_ around him, a miniature whirlwind of sand and dust, blocking all his vision out. It was in his mouth and nose and ears; all his senses had been taken out at once. For an alarmed second, he merely covered his eyes with his sleeve, before he felt an incendiary rage heat up inside of him.

A pulse erupted from him like a volcanic explosion of fury, pushing the sand away until it fell softly back to the ground, but the damage had been done.

The trio was gone.

Inside, a flurry of emotions swept through his mind. Confusion and anger and bewilderment, before he settled on a suitable mixture between fury, shame, and, most startlingly, some approval.

It didn’t take just _anybody_ to get the better of him.

Dooku’s senses had stretched out automatically after them, but the boy, a tornado of rage in the Force, had disappeared. And when Dooku meant ‘disappeared’, he _meant_ it. Not because he could not be bothered to find something. But because it was not there to be found.

No trace of the boy wafted in the air but the trickle from where they had fought, residual anger Dooku could almost taste, but other than that… it was though he had slammed up shields stronger than those of Yoda, or abandoned the planet.

A powerful Force user, indeed.

Dooku found himself smiling lightly. Who honestly cared so much about the Hutts, when he had a potential apprentice ahead of him? Strong-minded, sure of himself, arrogant, of course, but Dooku could work with that. He could _break_ him.  And he _would._

The Rule of Two was made to be broken.

***Notes- eh school is starting again soon, figured I'd post it. It's late where I am, so I didn't register any typos. Sorry**


	7. Chapter 7

Ahsoka edged around a group of gangly K’neeshan tourists, who were apparently only there to look tough, or so their attire suggested, and dove into the crowd. Buffeted from side to side, Ahsoka struggled her way through the maze of people, looking left and right and forward and back, but no one really registered as any of the group.

What did they look like, again?

Banai, she remembered, had been all dusky skin and dark eyes, not particularly tall, either. Not much of a presence either, just a stick wearing tatty moisture farmer garb. She shouldered her way past an irritating person who was taking up as much space as possible, and tried to think of the two who had been pulling him away. A female Twi’lek, right? Green skin, at least ten centimetres taller than Banai, and stocky. In the few seconds Ahsoka had seen her, she’d immediately decided the Twi’lek looked as though she could pack a very painful punch. Something about the way she moved indicated she would be able to take out anyone; at least, anyone non-Force-sensitive. But she looked like she’d be able to thrash some of the younger knights, and give some of the older ones a good fight. She walked like an assassin would.

And the last figure… Ahsoka had recognised him. Not his face, which she’d only had the barest glimpse of, but his lankiness and skinniness and _height_ , which brought her back to Zygerria.

She’d seen him only from a distance, bearing a blaster and a vibroblade, finding slaves and breaking their collars with a touch of his hand. Some technology, she supposed.

The girl who had broken her free from the palace, a young freckled woman clad in a torn disguise had pointed him out proudly and unthinkingly as she unfastened the collar around Ahsoka’s throat with delicate fingers and a long, thin spike of metal.

     “My brother,” she’d said with a smile. “He’s in charge. Can you see any friends or family? Do you know where they are?”

Ahsoka had blurted a ‘I know where they are thank you thank you but I have to go find them don’t worry about me’, and then sprinted off to find Obi-Wan. The girl had stretched out a hand to stop her, before an onslaught of more recently freed slaves took her attention.

Obi-Wan had been lurking with a group of slaves, looking bedraggled and dirty and in a little more than just a bad mood when she found him, and escape after that had been as simple as anything. They’d come back to where the freckly woman had been, but she was no longer there, the slaves having boarded a cargo freighter, and Obi-Wan tugged her onto a Zygerrian ship. Their escape from the atmosphere led to Ahsoka’s first, only, and final glimpse of the battered, _huge_ ship that must have been the salve-freers’ base of operations, and then the stars of hyperspace gleamed past in streaks of white and blue. She’d sagged back into her seat, feeling confused and slightly desolate, and had remained so for the journey back to Coruscant.

Ahsoka tried to recall the man’s face, even from the distance, but all that blew past was the freckled girl, and a fair smear of blurred features, only a hint of blue streaked across where his eyes would be.

And now, all that she could see in her mind’s eye, as she shoved and darted her way through the crowds, was a very tall, very thin body with the round face of the woman perched on a neck. A sight fairly ridiculous, but the woman had been Ahsoka’s only contact with the group, and try as she might, she couldn’t really separate the two images of the man and his sister. Ahsoka dispersed those thoughts as she dodged a leering, drunken person who scraped at her with clawed hands.

     “Get away from me,” she demanded, shoving past him and elbowing her way around a trio of Dugs. The incident was forgotten quickly, as a glimpse of that ruffled blonde hair accompanied by two smaller figures was caught by Ahsoka’s keen, searching eye.

The dark-skinned boy’s arm dangled limply over the Twi’lek’s muscled shoulder, although his feet seemed to be working well enough. A crust of sandstone crumbled from a building as the tallest figure’s shoulder caught on an edge and cracked it clean off. He turned his head, and-

The flash of blue Ahsoka caught before her view of his face was lost was unmistakeable.

He opened his mouth- probably to say something to a companion, or to breath deeply, that blood running from his nose couldn’t be doing anything for his breathing- and a heavy-set Trandoshan filled Ahsoka’s view.

     “ _No_ ,” she hissed to herself, shouldering around the body, but it was too late. The three, so briefly in her sights, had disappeared into the hordes of people swarming the streets like mynocks in a cave.

Ahsoka stretched out a finger into the Force as she blindly manoeuvred her way through the crowds, reaching out to just get a grip on one of them, Banai perhaps. She knew him, she’d _met_ him, she had to have just a little of that trace left in her memory…

And then guilt punched her in the belly like a Force-pike. She let her hand of the Force drop, quivering, and she wobbled over to an alley. It wasn’t so much _pain_ sinking ragged, blunt claws into her, but a feeling of nausea as if her insides were to rebel entirely against her will and body, pouring out in coughs and chokes and wheezes.

This wasn’t her, _this wasn’t her,_ she shouldn’t be trying to hunt them down she should be _saving_ them, getting them loose and free like they’d done for her, away from this planet and the Hutts and the Jedi and Dooku and-

Ahsoka dug her fingers into the crumbling walls so hard she felt a nail crack. She grimaced and took a deep, shaky breath.

But that was good, that was pain and a distraction.  A distraction from the feelings of rampant misery and guilt and Force above, the _confusion_ and-

_There is no emotion, only peace._

     “There is no emotion,” Ahsoka murmured. “There is no emotion. There is no emotion.”

 _To have no emotion is to not be alive,_ a voice responded in her brain, but she shut it down as quick as she could.

She couldn’t disappoint Master Obi-Wan. He was counting on her.  The Council was counting on her. The _Republic_ was counting on her. She couldn’t-

She couldn’t forsake that for one man.

     “There is no emotion,” she repeated. “Only peace.”

Ahsoka knew what she had to do.

But she couldn’t do that, because there was a pair of arms wrapping around her waist and hoisting her into the air, their grip too tight for her to escape from, and she screamed in fury, sending elbows jabbing, the only response to her onslaught a groaning sigh as her blows caught their target. She pushed outwards with the Force, struggling to push the man away from her, but he was too strong.

The drunk’s face flickered in her brain, and she gave a shout in anger and effort, pulling against the arms, straining and tugging until her shoulder screamed in agony, and a hand clapped itself over her mouth.

 

***

 

Padmé knocked once politely on Bail’s door.  Mon stood by her elbow, carefully reading through a data-pad. Her eyes flicked up to the door when there was no immediate response, and a delicate line appeared between her eyebrows.

Ten seconds later, the door had not opened.

Then Padmé knocked twice. Mon put away the data-pad into her robes and waited patiently.

There was still no reply from the Alderaanian viceroy.

And then she pummelled the door with her fists.

     “Bail!” she hollered. “I know you’re in there!”

A crash from behind the door had her momentarily startled, but then Bail began swearing softly in old Alderaani, and she relaxed.

     “I have excellent news for your wife!” she lied loudly as an attendant passed her curiously with a dirty look. She started to sway slightly, and leaned heavily against Mon as though she were drunk. “It’s her life-day in ten days, isn’t it?”

The attendant’s compound eyes narrowed, and they made a shushing gesture towards Padmé. Mon merely looked disappointed by her appalling cover-up, but wrapped an arm around her as though she were her disapproving, sober friend.

     “Sorry,” Padmé whispered. To Mon, or the attendant, she wasn’t actually sure.

The door opened slowly, and Bail’s weary and wary face popped into sight. He drank in the sight of Padmé and Mon; Padmé looking as if she were trying her very best to appear drunk, and Mon like she was just irritated.

     “Clearly you _must_ have excellent news,” he said, opening the door just enough for them to get through.

He was still in his senate attire, and looked exhausted. There were huge shadows painted under his eyes, and somehow gave off the sort of aura that usually gave Padmé the impression he was going to drop off at any second.

     “That I do,” Padmé said. “Unfortunately, not actually about your wife. That was to cover for the attendant and any eavesdroppers.”

     “A pity,” Bail replied gloomily. “I haven’t the slightest what to get her.”

Padmé laughed. “It’s probably more important that Breha’s life day, but I’ll help you find something for her.”

Bail nodded, and the three of them drifted into his lounge. He stopped by the liquor cabinet and automatically picked up two glasses.

     “Drinks?” he offered, even though he was almost 80% sure Mon didn’t drink, and Padmé made a face when he offered it.

    “Everyone thinks I’m drunk already,” Padmé said. “I can’t return to my apartment smelling even _more_ like alcohol. I’m fine, thank you.”

Mon gave a small shake of her head, a grateful smile on her face.

Bail shrugged. “Suit yourselves,” he said, pouring himself a generous glass and collapsing on the nearest chair. By all the gods, he was tired. But Padmé clearly had important news, and if it weren’t as important as it seemed to be she wouldn’t have pulled Mon into it either. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Padmé’s delicate eyebrow arched. “You sound awfully sarcastic, Bail. The pleasure is that I’ve made contact with Mina Bonteri and .”

Bail blinked a few times, trying to swim out from the haze of exhaustion clouding all areas of his brain dedicated to thinking.

Padmé waited.

     “Of the Separatist senate?” Bail asked stupidly once he realised just where that name was from.

Mon Mothma nodded slowly, ever silent and dignified. “By Bluss and Amita Fonti as well. They’re open to negotiations, but it’s more sensible for us to meet them in person before the session when they shall propose peaceful negotiations with the Republic.”

Bail ran through what that might mean, and cursed his slow brain. “Are you both going to meet with them?”

Padmé nodded, looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. “Senators Bluss and Fonti are both heading to Mina’s home on Onderon. We’ll meet them there to discuss how this could be brought up in both our senates, before we return and make the proposals.”

This was all happening far more quickly than he could have hoped, and Bail felt his desolate mood begin to improve.

 

***

 

Obi-Wan wrapped himself in a cloak of the Force, concealing himself from all sentients and- most importantly- Dooku. Throughout the years since Geonosis, the sense of controlled power around the count only increased and became sharper, pointed, more directed and even more aloof than ever before. It was a worry, Obi-Wan was partly sure that Dooku would be able to feel him despite his efforts to prevent that occurring. There was a thin blade of ice passing through his stomach, uncomfortable and too hard to ignore.

Obi-Wan internally chided himself. There wasn’t any point in worrying that Dooku would find him. If he did, then his emotions would a) get the better of him, and b) make it really _really_ obvious that there was a Force-sensitive around Dooku who, for some inexplicable reason, was exceedingly nervous. Obi-Wan had not forgotten Geonosis.

As the familiar tall, silver-haired figure of Dooku entered the main street, Obi-Wan darted off to the side, turning his face away and pretending to examine a stall with a large number of upside-down, dead animals attached to a line tied overhead, each one swinging gently in the gritty breeze.

The salesman took one look at Obi-Wan, a second look at Dooku, and snorted. “Great disguise,” he told Obi-Wan in a heavily accented drawl. “No one can see through _that.”_ Then he turned away to serve a different customer, and completely ignored him.

 _Well,_ though Obi-Wan. _At least he wasn’t any louder than that._

Obi-Wan stretched out his senses as delicately as possible, flinching a little as Dooku’s white-hot irritation seeped into the Force. It reminded him all to much of that battle, where he only survived because of the intervention of Aayla Secura. Who now had a prosthetic leg, and had been incapacitated for several months post-Geonosis. The last he’d seen of her, her hyperdrive had malfunctioned and they had all been catapulted across the galaxy onto a small planet of pacifists to the extreme.

Dooku didn’t seem to notice Obi-Wan, and continued his intimidating way down the street.

Obi-Wan, pulling his tan ensemble up to cover his nose and mouth, slipped after him quietly.

***Notes* Ew that took way too long to write**


	8. Chapter 8

Ahsoka’s vision suddenly and violently hazed over in a blur of red, and then her elbow was flying back into a well-muscled stomach, hard enough to make her captor stagger, and her fist sailing over her shoulder and crunching into somebody’s nose with a sudden explosion of swear words from at least eight different languages, but the arms squeezing around her waist did not loosen in the slightest.

     “ _Kriffing_ son of a karking – “ Apparently her captor’s mouth was quite happy to retaliate against the onslaught of elbow and fists. One of their arms (green, a Twi’lek’s perhaps) moved upwards, trying to contain her bony limbs flying in all directions, but as it approached, Ahsoka did the most logical thing she could think of.

She bit it.

Her Togruta fangs sunk deep into the flesh, and her captor let out a high-pitched scream disguised as a snarl, and she could feel the muscle beneath her teeth clench. Blood filled her mouth, and her mind found it relevant to quote information about her species’ heritage in dull, educational tones as if she were suddenly returned to the Jedi temple.

As her captor squawked a little more – “AAGH! GET HER OFF!!” – she kicked out with her legs, smashing into a human man’s face, one who was trying to approach her from the front. He yowled as his nose made an odd _crack_ that probably meant she’d broken it, but honestly, this was _Jakku._ It would be a surprise if one’s nose hadn’t already been broken by a scavenger, a Separatist, or anyone who managed to get in a really bad mood.

Ahsoka felt blood on her knuckles and in her mouth, salty and tangy and far too much like the meat she was used to eating. There wasn’t _supposed_ to be a tangible difference between sentient and non-sentient blood, but she could tell all the same.

Sentient blood tasted… _alive._

She spat it out, and prepared to send a final punch into the face owned by her captor, but the broken-nosed man held out his hands in a pacifying gesture.

     “Ahsoka! Ahsoka, wait! _Kriff,_ don’t you remember me?”

She halted her arm, fully prepared to continue her elbow’s path into a certain stomach if she didn’t appreciate the explanation, but the man’s bloodied face was that she had seen only a couple of hours before.

     “You’re the guy from the cantina?”

     “ _Yeah,_ who _else?_ ” Banai’s face was emotionally devastated… or sarcastically, anyway.

     “This is _Jakku._ I am a teenage former _slave,_ and you expect me to _immediately_ recognise someone who I met _once,_ who also _grabbed me off the street with possible ill-intent?_ Immediately after some _creep_ made grabby hands at me? How would _you_ react?”

     “I gave Anakin a black eye when he tapped me on the shoulder unexpectedly,” Banai offered, “but that doesn’t matter.” Who Anakin was, Ahsoka didn’t particularly care, but Banai looked appropriately sheepish and apologetic as he rubbed his nose. Ahsoka’s eyes flicked down to a vivd bruise spreading around his throat. It wasn’t difficult to guess where that had come from.

     “I’ll let go, then,” a woman said from behind her, and released her arms, rubbing the puncture wounds on her arm somewhat ruefully. One of her fingers were bent, as if they’d been broken by a blaster being twisted away. “Sorry. Could’ve attracted your attention in some other way. We get carried away.”

She was the stocky Twi’lek woman, green and muscled in a way Ahsoka was immediately envious of. She was such a skinny little thing, even after so much training…

     “Depends why you wanted my attention,” Ahsoka said, trying to assume a wary expression. She didn’t have to pretend very hard, since she knew exactly who they were, but her heart was beating faster every second. It was them! The ones who helped save her people! And she just bit one of their arms, and broke the other’s nose. “Why in the galaxy did you come after _me?_ ”

Banai blinked, and exchanged an incredulous look with the Twi’lek woman. “Well… you were a slave on Zygerria, right?” He asked.

     “Correct,” Ahsoka half-lied.

     “And the guy in the cantina you were with, he was basically treating you like one even though you were freed, yeah?”

Ahsoka stared at him stonily, and averted her eyes.

And that seemed to convince them.

     “You can come with us!” Banai said brightly. “We’re part of the organisation that was on Zygerria.”

Ahsoka nearly choked at how unbearably _stupid_ and _naïve_ it was to say something like that. It went against everything she’d ever heard about terrorists or secret societies or services. One didn’t just _blab_ that one belonged to such a group. Especially not to a complete stranger.

Maybe that was the big problem with the organisation: unbearable naivety. Or they just wanted to help; they were _desperate_ to help, and one and anything that looked in need.

     “Kitser, I don’t _believe_ it, we’ve been away from that Jedi for _three minutes_ and you’ve already gotten yourself beaten up by someone else.”

Kitster Banai scowled, and a young man who looked as though he had no right to laugh (as he had crusted blood all over his nose and lips, and half his face was swelling, the other half bruised purple) at anyone else’s injuries, appeared. He laughed anyway.

Then Ahsoka looked at him properly, and the man in her memory suddenly had a face., the smear of fair features and blue eyes rippling into – well, a bruised, bloody, grinning mess.

     “ _You’re_ Starkiller,” she realised.

She’d been waiting to meet this man ever since his sister had first pointed him out on Zygerria, and the combination of the freckled woman’s face and the soggy, clouded memory of Starkiller all those months ago cleared out like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

     “Yeah.”

And no denial from him, either. There was a proud smirk on his lips.

He wasn’t very impressive to look at, skinny and lanky as though he had never had enough to eat, and what he _had_ had all been put to shooting him up to quite a height. No muscle whatsoever, or none visible anyway, and with a beaten up face he was barely alright-looking for a human. But none of that mattered, it was the aura about him that mattered.

She could feel him through the Force, immensely powerful, volatile, somewhat arrogant, dedicated, determined, scared. And kind. There was a lot of kindness she could feel from him.

His attention had wavered from her again, and he was biting down his already swollen lip to stop himself from laughing at Kitster. “I wanna hear exactly how that happened.”

     “I kicked him in the face,” Ahsoka replied immediately, and Starkiller choked.

     “ _Hells,_ Kitster, you’re meant to be a professional.”

     “I’m sure he is,” Ahsoka said smugly. “At getting his ass kicked.”

Starkiller had to hit himself in the chest to clear his throat as he choked again.

     “I can take care of myself,” Kitser said defensively. “You barve, Anakin. Remember that time in – “

     “No,” Starkiller, or Anakin, apparently, interrupted, grinning. “And no one counts that, you would have been _completely_ taken out if I hadn’t – “

     “Anyway,” the Twi’lek interjected, leaving Anakin making a face at Kitster. “Proper introductions, right? I’m Pala. You’ve probably gathered that these barves are Anakin and Kitster. Now, we’re headed back to Tatooine after depositing a group of former slaves onto a safe planet. Do you wanna come with?”

Brief and to the point.

     “Absolutely,” Ahsoka beamed. She barely even thought of what that would involve. Betrayal. Guilt. Etc. But she liked them; she liked them even though she had only met them for about one minute. “I’m Ahsoka.”

Anakin grinned, and for a second it was like looking into a mirror. A faintly savage smile, of someone who would do whatever it took to complete his mission. It was a good thing he was using what he had to free people; if he were a dictator, a slaver, or a smuggler, she couldn’t imagine anyone who crossed him living to tell the tale.

 

  **Notes* I'm so sorry I have lost so much motivation aaaaahhhhhhh**


End file.
